Your Wish Is My Command
by escritoria
Summary: A prompt fic-you tell me what you want to read, and I write it! Rules inside. Rated T because I don't know what people will request. *Latest: Rwanda has been searching for security ever since her nation fell apart not too long ago. Could it be that the feeling of safety she's searched so long for can be found not in her own strength, but in another nation?*
1. The Horrors of English Food

**AN: Hey all, I'm Escritoria, the author of this fic. As of now I get to be a genie-whatever you ask for, I deliver. ****But like all genies, I have a few limitations, so here are my three rules:**

**1) I won't do yaoi. I'm sorry, I just don't like writing it. If I'm asked to do a guyxguy pairing, I will fem!ify one of them. You can pick which you like, or I will pick, either way, but someone will end up as a girl. That goes the same but backwards for yuri pairings.**

**2) If you want me to do a crossover, PM me to see if I know what you're talking about xD I'm fairly new to the world of anime, so I might not know what it is.**

**3) If I am asked to do an incest pairing, they will magically transfer to an alternate universe where they are not related. And the fem!ifying will still go for that.**

**Other than that, your wish is my command! Leave me a review or PM me your prompt. It can be as vague or as specific as you want, long or short, characterxcharacter or characterxreader, AU or regular—anything goes!**

**This first chapter is a prompt of my own devising, just so you guys can get a little preview.**

**Prompt: Britain makes dinner for the Allies. BEWARE.**

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><p>France sighed, tossing his golden hair as he and his friends walked the long gravel driveway to Britain's house. "Remind me, how did I get dragged into this?"<p>

China was cradling his panda in his overlong sleeves, murmuring to it gently as he walked, but he looked up when France spoke. "Remember, France, aru? Last time America and England went out drinking England got drunk and was crying because no one likes his food, aru. So America felt bad for him and convinced us all to let England make dinner for us, aru."

"Aw, c'mon guys! Take one for the team! Britain looked seriously bummed out, and he's our ally so we have to make him feel better!" America said loudly. When everyone looked at him like he was nuts, he added, "Just pour a whole bunch of salt on everything when he's not looking and it'll be bearable."

"Its blandness is not the only thing wrong with _Angleterre's_ food," Francis muttered darkly.

"Eh, it's not so bad," Russia chimed in cheerfully, swinging his pipe as he walked. "Once you have eaten raw flesh for whole winter, nothing tastes so bad anymore."

Everyone else was too scared to ask what type of raw flesh Russia had been forced to eat all winter. For that matter, they were too scared to ask if he'd been forced to do it at all. Nervously, China tucked his panda into the woven basket on his back.

"My palette will be ruined," whined France after a moment of awkward mortal-terror-of-Russia-induced silence. "I'll never have the same taste for the delicacies of my country again!"

"Your portions are so small it's a wonder you taste them at all!" exclaimed America.

"The most delicious things don't need to be supersized," snapped France. "Which explains why everything in your country's so overly huge."

"Nah, that's just in Texas," America said with an offhanded wave.

"Shh, aru! I'm about to ring the bell, aru." When everyone had fallen silent, the Chinese man rang the doorbell and waited for Britain to answer.

In just a few seconds they heard him call cheerfully, "Coming!" The man himself appeared at the door not long after, massive eyebrows and all, wiping his hands on a dishrag and grinning wider than any of them could remember ever seeing before. "Come in, chaps, come in! So good of you to come tonight."

Frankly, France was kind of freaked out by how happy England looked. The Brit always seemed to be moping and sulking about something. France kept telling him to take a hint from the French and lighten up a little, but this was just odd. "Erm, thanks for inviting us."

"My pleasure!" Britain gave France a wide grin, which made France blink. He hadn't gotten a smile from England in… Well, a very long time. He was actually pretty good-looking when he wasn't scowling all over the place like the whole world was against him. France's mind was instantly filled with dirty fantasies.

America shot France a look. He knew what the most perverted of the Allies (and possibly all the nations) was thinking. No one gave America any credit for brains, not that he deserved much anyway, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what France was thinking. His thought patterns didn't deviate from his favorite pastime much, so it was usually a pretty solid bet that he was thinking about sex no matter what time it was or what was going on.

As he led them to the dining room, England narrated the tour of his home cheerfully, telling them about the suits of armor posted at the juncture of hallways and at regular intervals in between, the delicate vases and paintings nestled into alcoves, and occasional sculpture or tapestry. Some of them were older than America was—England had been around for a long time, and the relics of his grand history were all very well preserved here in his home. It was better than any museum, and the guide much more well-informed than your average museum staff.

When they reached the dining room, the Allies felt like they were kneeling before a guillotine, about to face the death penalty—all except Russia, of course, who would eat anything with gusto since his raw-flesh-fed winter. But they all swallowed their fear and forced themselves to smile at Britain as he declared, "All right then, I'm off to see to the food!" and vanished through a door between a grandfather clock and a faded tapestry.

"Okay, here's the game plan!" stage-whispered America. He wasn't capable of regular whispering—France had tried to teach him once, but it hadn't worked. The closest he'd gotten was the loud whisper America used now. "We all gotta man up and eat the stuff, got it? Even if it's horrible we gotta swallow and smile at him so he doesn't start crying again."

Everyone shuddered simultaneously. As terrifying as the idea of eating Britain's food was, the sight of him bawling like a baby was the stuff of nightmares. Even Russia was a little weirded out by the sight of the snobby nation breaking down into tears.

China's panda whimpered in the basket. The eldest nation turned towards the door, hissing, "He's coming, aru!"

The others scrambled into their seats. Russia set his pipe next to his place setting, grinning that eerie empty smile at his allies.

"Well, here it is!" Britain swept into the room, followed by several servants bearing their dinners on silver dome-covered trays.

"I made it all myself," England said, taking his seat at the head of the table. "These fellows are just here to serve us."

"Oh," said America, trying to be tactful. Too bad—he'd hoped that he could at least blame any burnt or shapelessly mushy stuff on a bad cook. Unfortunately he couldn't say that to Britain. _Jeez, I have to stop going drinking with that guy! I always end up in situations like this when he gets drunk._

"Well, let's get this over with," said Russia, smiling creepily up at his waiter as his plate was set before him. All the other Allies shot him terrified looks.

Luckily, England didn't seem to notice. "Well, enjoy!"

When the dome was lifted off America's plate, for a minute he thought that Britain was serving charred boot soles for dinner. Then he realized that it was meat of some kind. There were also some mashed potatoes that were a sickly gray color that didn't look healthy to eat, and some squishy, mushy green stuff that may have been a vegetable once.

"Ah…" France poked gingerly at the pile of green mush. "_Bon apetit_?"

Russia was the first to find the courage to put the food in his mouth. He sawed a hunk off the meat thing and popped it into his mouth, chewing and nodding thoughtfully.

The rest of the Allies reluctantly followed suit. America almost choked on the dry meat, but he managed to get it down with the help of a gulp of water. To his left, China wore a poker face that would have put Hong Kong to shame as he put some of the vegetable mush into his mouth. Francis didn't even bother to conceal the revulsion on his face as he swallowed a forkful of mashed potatoes.

"Yum!" America managed, baring his teeth at England in what he hoped passed for a grin.

"Delicious, aru," choked China.

"Da!" Russia was already finished with his boot-sole filet and was cheerfully starting on the sickly-looking potatoes.

France buried his face in his glass of wine so he wouldn't have to add a comment.

To everyone's relief, England glowed with pride at the fake praise. "Thank you! Well, dig in, there's plenty!"

Francis groaned into his wine. America kicked him under the table, making him slop wine across his stubbly chin.

He swore in French and shot America a furtive glare when England wasn't looking, absorbed with talking to his waiter. France dabbed the reddish liquid off his skin with his napkin. "Do you know how hard winestains are to remove?" he hissed.

"No," the younger nation said bluntly.

"Ah, I forget, you are not classy enough for wine. You only drink beer and other such garbage."

"Am too classy enough for wine! I just throw things away if they get stained cuz it's a pain to get them out!"

"Shh, aru!" China warned. England was turning back to his dinner.

France didn't touch another bite the whole meal. Instead, when Britain was distracted, he stuffed another piece of his meal into the napkin on his lap. Russia actually cleaned his plate, to everyone's horror—as weird as he was, they didn't want him to die or grow an extra eye or anything, and who knew what British food could do to you? China fed his veggies to his panda, who was sitting at his feet and didn't look happy about what his master was feeding him, but poor America was left to actually eat the stuff on his own. By the time he was finished, he felt sick to his stomach and was longingly daydreaming about the McDonald's he would pass to get home.

"Ahh," sighed Britain, setting his napkin on his empty plate. "That hit the spot! Is anyone still hungry?"

The Allies fell over themselves to protest. "Nah, I feel full enough to save the world!" America assured him. "Oh wait, I always feel like that! Cuz I'm the hero!" France groaned theatrically.

"Well, in that case I suppose we should call it a night." England smiled widely at his Allies. "This was lovely; we should do it again sometime!"

For a second everyone was quiet. Nobody actually wanted to eat a boot sole more than once in his life, but of course they couldn't tell Britain that. And he looked _so_ happy…

"Totally, Iggy!" cried America.

"I agree, _Angleterre_."

"I think so too, aru!"

"Da."

If eating dinner at Britain's house every once in a while could make the perpetually gloomy nation grin like that...

Maybe boot soles weren't so bad after all.

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><p><strong>AN: So there you go! Review and request and you won't have to eat Britain's food (unless you live in England, in which case it's kinda unavoidable...)!<strong>


	2. PASTAAAA!

**Prompt: Italy and Germany making pasta together! (from gymnAlissa3111)**

**AN: Sorry this one is short. I just did a cute little friendship moment. Hope you like it, gymnAlissa3111)**

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><p>"Pasta, pasta, pasta, pasta, pasta!" chanted Italy as he swept around Germany's kitchen, gathering all the ingredients for his favorite food. "<em>Ti amo<em>, pasta! Ve~!"

Germany was sitting at his kitchen table with a disgruntled expression on his face. "Italy, you don't have to do zat, you know. I can make dinner for myself."

"It's okay, Germany! I like making pasta!" The smaller man hummed contentedly as he mixed the dough.

"But you always do zis for me… I feel bad. Don't you need to go home and spend time viz Romano?"

"It's okay, ve~! Big Brother Romano's going drinking with his Mafia friends tonight." Italy was suddenly very absorbed in kneading the dough. "He always comes home late after he does that, and I don't like his Mafia friends…"

_Oh. I see._ He was just looking for an excuse not to go home to a drunk angry southern Italian with a bunch of thugs for friends.

Germany rolled his eyes. How had he become allies with such a putz?

With a sigh, he stood up. "At least let me help."

Italy smiled widely. "Really? Ve~! Pasta with Germany!" he cheered.

It didn't take Germany long to realize that he was in way over his head. Compared to Italy, he was a culinary novice, hundreds of years of history aside. While Italy moved around the kitchen fluidly and purposefully, Germany was awkward, unsure of where he was going and what he should be doing. It was like training, but their positions were reversed—here Italy was the collected one and Germany was fumbling.

After a while Italy took pity on his much scarier ally. "Hey, Germany, how 'bout we make some pasta with sausage in it? You can make the sausage, and I'll do the rest, okay?"

Trying to conceal his relief, Germany said, "Okay." He went over to the wurst maker and got to work. Now this, he could do.

Italy hummed cheerfully as he worked. Soon the kitchen was warm and full of the smells of tomato sauce simmering on the stove and Ludwig's wurst frying in the pan. Italy was chopping vegetables and Germany was setting the table. It was kind of…nice. Different from their usual hard-fire training. It felt kind of odd to Germany, not having to yell at Italy for anything.

Pouring the vegetables into the sauce, Italy noticed that Germany was only setting two places. "What about Prussia, Germany?" he asked, cocking his head as he stirred the sauce.

"Prussia zinks he's too awesome to eat viz me anymore," Germany replied grumpily. "I svear, ever since he became his own "nation" again he zinks he's above associating viz me. Even zough his "country" is only a few square kilometers, and Berlin is bigger zan zat!"

"I think it's nice that Prussia gets to be a nation again," said Italy as he put the pasta through the strainer. The pot looked like it should have been too big for him to carry considering that his arms had about as much strength as overcooked spaghetti noodles, but he always had all the strength he needed in the kitchen. "Besides, Vatican City is smaller than that and it's a country! And it's inside Rome and everything!"

Germany was still grumpy. "Still! He's claiming _my_ land!"

"Aww, Germany," said Italy. He spooned the pasta into bowls and brought them over to the table. "Don't be so mean to Prussia."

"Let's not talk about it anymore, okay?" Germany said. Nowadays any talk about his brother just made him upset. "If we're talking about zat jerk I von't be able to enjoy ze food."

"Okay," Italy said. "Well, let's eat, ve~!" He eagerly dug his fork into his pasta and twirled the utensil around to get the most noodles he could on it. He might be a food snob, but he was also a pig when he got his hands on food he actually liked.

Germany picked up his fork and took a bite. When it touched his tongue his eyes widened. Usually, he liked Italy's pasta okay, but it lacked the earthiness of his own food. This time, with the wurst in it, it was a delicious mixture of the heartiness of his food and the refinement Italy's gourmet cooking. It was…amazing.

Italy smiled. "Do you like it, ve~?"

"It's delicious," Germany said. "Ve should make zis more often."

"Yeah! I liked cooking with Germany," he said happily, twirling another forkful of pasta. "And it's yummy!"

"Very." They spent the rest of the meal chatting idly about their friends and what was going on in the world. When they'd finished, Germany did the dishes and Italy cleaned the kitchen, putting away all the ingredients and boxing up the leftovers for Prussia to scavenge later.

When Germany had set the last dish in the dishwasher, he turned to find Italy staring at the floor and shuffling his boots. "Hey Germany? Do ya think I could sleep over here tonight?"

Germany's first instinct was to say no. But then he hesitated. Romano _was_ a real jerk when he was drunk. And plus, cooking together with him had made him feel…closer to Italy.

Stupid emotions.

"Ja, I suppose," Germany sighed.

"Yay! Sleepover at Germany's!" Italy hugged Germany tightly. "_Grazie_!"

"No problem." Germany patted Italy's head awkwardly. "Now get off of me so we can go to bed."

"Kay!" Italy let go and skipped off.

Germany rolled his eyes. _Zat putz. But… I guess he's okay. I mean, I've put up viz him zis long… I suppose I can handle it for one night._

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><p><strong>AN: Sorry it kinda got Prussia-fied there in the middle... xD What can I say? I love me the awesome Prussia. Please review and tell me what you want to see in the next chapters!<strong>


	3. What Goes On In Dressing Rooms

**AN: I enjoyed this prompt! I've never written Punk!Iggy before though, but she has plenty of attitude just the way she is, so I figured it would turn out okay. USUK is my favorite pairing (if you like it too, see my fic _For Better or For Worse_ [shameless plugging]) so this prompt was very welcome. That and it came from one of my favorite people in cyberworld, Angel the Neko! Hope this was all you wanted and more, Angel! :P**

**Prompt: I like EnglandxAmerica! Turn England into a girl. It just works. (from Angel the Neko)**

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><p>"Why am I here again?" whined Alfred as his friend Britt dragged him along by his wrist. "I don't like shopping!"<p>

"I need a dress for Francis' party," she said, jerking him forward. "C'mon, don't drag your feet like that! What are you, five?"

"No!"

"Well then get a move on, git!"

"You're buying me ice cream after this crap is over with, right? That was the deal."

Britt rolled her green eyes, outlined in heavy black eyeliner and mascara. She'd gone into a punk phase last year—she'd chopped her blonde hair short and now all she wore were weird band shirts and tight jeans with tutus and weird stuff like that. "Yes, Alfred, I'll buy you your disgusting ice cream."

Her taste in clothes (and food) aside, Britt was the coolest girl Alfred had ever met. Sure, she punched him and slapped him around like she was one of the guys and had a mouth that would've made a sailor plug his ears, but somehow she made it hot. They'd known each other since they were children. He'd been the one to smush gum and mud pies into her hair at recess, and she was the one who tattled on him for talking and playing video games during class.

When you had that much history with somebody, it was kind of inevitable. You were going to fall in love at some point—like some stupid girl-next-door movie. And for the past few years, Alfred had been steadily falling head-over-heels for a certain British girl next door.

He'd always thought it was a little passing fancy that he'd get over within a week. Thing was, though, it wasn't going away like Alfred had always hoped it would.

"This store," she declared, dragging him inside some dark, creepy store.

"Dude, this store totally belongs in a horror flick," Alfred said nervously, following Britt inside. He didn't like horror movies. Well, gory axe-murderer dramas he liked, but if there was a ghost on a screen it just made him flip out. "How do you shop in dumps like this?"

She rolled her eyes. "For your information, Yank, this is my favorite store."

"Yikes." That earned him a hard slap upside the head. He grinned, hiding it as best he could when his head snapped forward from her hit. Provoking her was his favorite thing to do. Only heaven knew why she'd put up with him this long.

o~O~o

"Uhh, Britt? You sure it's okay that I'm in here, dude?" Alfred looked around nervously at the empty women's dressing room. Well, mostly empty. Britt was in a changing room at the far end, trying on her dresses.

It was friggin _awkward_. The girl he'd known since he was seven who he might kinda sorta like was getting naked just a few yards away, even if it was behind a closed dressing room door, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do or say or think. Or even if he should do or say or think anything at all.

"It's fine. There's no one in here," Britt said.

"What if someone comes in here?" _You're in here! Jeez, she's changing practically right in front of me and doesn't even care! Does she really not think of me that way at all?_

"Then you'll leave," she responded crossly. "Ugh, this one looks horrible."

The sound of her unzipping the dress and dropping it to the floor was driving him crazy. He made himself talk to forget where he was and what she was doing.

"So! What's old Francy-pants been up to recently?" The two of them had used to hang out, but then Francis had gotten a little weird and Alfred had cleared out of there before you could say "_Au revoir_."

"Nothing much, really," Britt said. He could hear her unclipping a dress from a hanger. "Partying a lot." The slide of fabric against her body. Alfred hummed tunelessly in his mind. Since when had his sense of hearing been so good?

"What else is new?"

She laughed. "Yeah I guess so." There was a pause. "He's kinda good-looking now."

Alfred froze in the act of checking yet again to make sure there were no women coming towards the dressing room. No need for the store to get a restraining order. Or you know, for him to spend the night in a jail cell. But the second those words left her mouth he ceased to care. "Francis?" he choked. "Bonnefoy?"

"Yeah." Her voice was defensively nonchalant.

"Are you nuts?" he demanded almost at a yell.

"What?" she demanded just as angrily. "I just said he was hot!"

"You said he was _good-looking_," he reminded her. "And seriously, it's Francis! He's been with like every girl in school! He's probably got like a bazillion diseases!"

"So?"

"So? Are you joking? Tell me you're joking. Does being punk mean you're stupid now?" _Oh crap_. He probably couldn't have said a single other thing to inflame her more. But he tended not to think about things like that before he said stuff.

The door to her changing room banged open. Luckily she was fully clothed, though. Unluckily she looked livid. "Stupid? You call _me_ stupid when you eat yourself to death like a glutton every day?"

Usually he would have yelled right back, but he was too distracted by what she was wearing. She looked amazing, in a short, strapless reddish-black dress with lots of buckles and belts and knee-high combat boots.

"What?" she asked crossly. "No witty comeback?"

"Uh, what?" He shook his head and looked at her.

"I called you a fatty," she said unkindly.

"Hey! This is all muscle."

"I doubt it." She rolled her eyes, then noticed he was still staring and glared at him. "What are you staring at?"

"You," he said before he could stop the word. Then he winced. "Ah, I mean…"

Blushing slightly, she looked away. "Um. I suppose I should take that as a compliment."

"Yeah." An awkward silence spread between them. Alfred took a stab at breaking the ice. "That dress is cool. Francis will—love it." He had to force the last words out.

His stomach curdled when she looked down at it and smoothed it, asking, "You think so?"

"For sure." He ran a hand through his hair as an excuse to look away.

"You're coming to the party right?" she asked, walking back into the dressing room and locking the door.

"Probably not. I'm just gonna eat the ice cream you're buying me" not-so-subtle reminder there "and then go home and play video games with Tony." Tony was his best friend. He was crashing at Alfred's place right now because he'd run away from home. Alfred didn't blame him for running away—Tony's family was so weird it was like another planet over there.

"Why not?"

"I don't like Francis and his crew. And he throws the lamest parties—he's not even around for half of the time because he's always taking some girl up to his room."

"The party's not about Francis."

"For you it is," he said, trying to conceal the venom in his voice.

"I'm not going just for Francis!" she snapped. "But if he happens to notice me, well, then…"

He groaned. "Dude, Britt. You shouldn't waste your time on that poser."

She walked out of her dressing room, gazing at him curiously. The weight of her bottle-green gaze made his heart drop into his sneakers. "What do you mean?"

Suddenly Alfred noticed a flicker of movement outside. "Oh crud! Someone's coming!" Panicking, he looked around desperately for an escape route, but there was none. If he ran out now, they'd notice him.

"In here!" Britt snatched the front of his shirt and dragged him inside her changing room with her, switching the lock

The room was pretty small for the two of them. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever been this close to Britt unless she was punching him or hugging him. The latter was much rarer than the former.

His heart was no longer in his shoes. Now it was in his throat. She was so…_there_. He was so aware of her.

Britt was obviously aware of him too. She flushed delicately pink and shook her choppy blonde bangs over her eyes.

The new occupants of the changing room were loud and chatty, which gave Britt the opportunity to whisper, "What did you mean, that I shouldn't waste my time on Francis?"

Alfred looked away. "I dunno. I mean, you're totally too good for him. You could do so much better than that creepster."

Her flush deepened and she coughed. "You don't know a thing about me," she whispered. "What business of yours is my love life?"

"None, unless…" _Dang it! I need to stop saying things before I think about them!_

The punk girl arched an eyebrow. "Unless?"

"Unless you made it my business." _Oh well. A little late to turn back now._ He reached out and brushed her short hair out of her eyes and tilted her chin up. "I'd definitely treat you better than old Francy-pants."

She looked away, turning crimson. "A-Alfred, what are you talking about?"

"I'm not sure. I'm kinda winging it," he admitted. "But I think this is what they usually do at this point in movies."

He kissed her.

For a second Britt was frozen, her lips motionless under the caress of his. Then she hesitantly began to respond, meeting his kiss with a reluctance that melted as the contact deepened. His arms locked around her waist, and her fingers tangled in the fine dirty blonde hair on the back of his neck.

"Alfred… What are you doing?" she whispered when he broke away for air.

"Kissing you, I think," he responded cheekily. "You dig?"

She knocked his forehead with hers, eliciting a hastily muffled, "Ow!" "Moron," she berated him. "This is hardly the place for a love confession." But she still had her arms around his neck, fingers woven through his hair.

"It's not like I planned to confess to you in a women's dressing room," he said with a sarcastic eye-roll. "I wouldn't even be in here if it wasn't for you!"

"Do you hear a man's voice?" asked one of the other women in the dressing room.

Britt mashed a hand over Alfred's mouth, as if it was necessary. He kissed her hand, although five minutes ago he probably would have licked it to gross her out.

She rolled her eyes. "You're a horrible romantic, you know that?"

"Whatever works," he said past her hand.

Unexpectedly, she replaced her hand with her lips. "You moron."

"I love you, Britt."

"…You too. Git."

He chuckled and pulled her closer, suddenly hoping the other ladies had a bunch of clothes to try on. The longer he got to stay in here, the happier he'd be.

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><p><strong>AN: So there was the USUK fluff! Hope everyone enjoyed it! Stay tuned and leave me lots of reviews and requests! If it takes a while for me to update, I'm sorry, but I have lots of schoolwork to get done, and I'm afraid that takes priority over fic-writing :'( Also, this IS a side project-my main focus will still be on <em>For Better or For Worse<em> and my upcoming PruCan/Franada fic. Still shameless plugging, I guess xD But really, you should check out my other fics too!**


	4. Tsunderes and Nerd Goddesses

**AN: This prompt was super fun! I already love PruCan (see First Kiss Wins by yours truly) but I had no clue how much I adored Spamano until I wrote this! She's so tsundere and he's so brainless :D The best kind of pairing. So thanks for opening my eyes to the wonders of Spamano, Rainfall SopranaofIreland! I hope this lives up to your expectations.**

**Prompt: Established SpaFem!mano and serious PruFem!Can flirting (from Rainfall SopranaofIreland)**

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><p>"Lovi~!" called Antonio from the bottom of the spiral staircase in their home. He'd been searching for his girlfriend for fifteen minutes now without success. "Where are you, <em>mi tomate<em>? We're late to meet Gilbert!"

"Who cares? I don't want to hang out with that rapist!" Lovina yelled back. It was hard to tell where her voice had come from, but it was obviously from upstairs.

"Aww, don't worry, Lovi, I'll never let him touch you! The only one who's allowed to do that is me!" he chuckled, starting up the stairs.

"Half the time I don't like _that_ either!" she shot back.

"Well at least the other half you do~!" The Spaniard reached the top of the stairs and made his way to her bedroom, poking his head inside. "Come on, Lovi, don't make me go by myself!"

Since she didn't respond, Antonio assumed he'd found the right room. "Lovi~! Come out, come out wherever you are…"

When he opened her closet, a blur streaked past him. He managed to snag Lovina around the waist before she got away.

"Ow! Lemme go, you jerk!" she howled, struggling and thrashing against his grip.

"_Calmate_, Lovi~," he soothed, reeling her in and planting a kiss on her lips. For a second she fought him, trying to escape his hold, but he was stronger than his lazy lifestyle would suggest. Realizing resistance was futile, she relaxed against him, her lips reluctantly meeting his with, if not equal fervor, close to it. Antonio grinned against her lips and hugged her close. "That's it, Lovi," he whispered, deepening the kiss.

When his kiss became more ardent, she started struggling again, face redder than a tomato. "No! Didn't we, umm—" She was cut off by his hungry lips. When she managed to escape them again, she gasped, "Ah! Gilbert! We were going to meet him!"

"Hmm…" Antonio looked torn, his arms still tight around her waist. "It's not _that_ important…"

"Oh, come on!" Lovina took advantage of his hesitation to worm her way out of his embrace. "You were insisting I go with you just a minute ago!"

"Well, _si_, but that was before you let me kiss you," he pouted.

With a growl she jerked open her bedroom door and gestured out of it. "Go!"

Sighing, Antonio complied. "I'll finish with you later," he teased.

"I hate it when you kiss me in my room," she grumbled. "I feel like my virginity's slipping away by the second."

"Well, we do live together," he reminded her, winding an arm around her waist as they made their way to the car. "You should just let me…"

"_No_," she growled, crossing herself as if the very thought was sinful.

"Aww…" Antonio's lower lip jutted out like a little kid's. Lovi was such a prude. So… _Catholic_. She even locked her bedroom door at night so he couldn't sneak into her room to catch a glimpse of her in her Italian sleeping attire. Which was nothing.

He was still holding out for the day she forgot to lock the door before she went to bed. It would come, he was sure of it.

o~O~o

Antonio pulled up in front of Gilbert's house. "We're here, Lovi," he said, poking her.

"Shut up! I know!" she huffed, getting out of the car.

Toni rolled his eyes with hopeless affection. "_Te amo, mi tomate_~!" he sighed.

Turning red, she glared at him. "Are you coming or not?"

"_Si_!" Toni switched off the car and followed her to the door. He knocked on the door, calling, "Hey, Gil, it's me!"

"Yo, Toni!" called Gilbert from inside. The door flew wide, revealing the albino German. "What's up, man!"

Toni grinned. "Nothing much, _amigo_!"

Gil peeked over Antonio's shoulder at the sullen Lovina. "Hey, I see you brought your Italian."

"YOU POTATO—"

Antonio cut her off. "So what are we doing today, _amigo_?"

"Well!" Gilbert waggled his eyebrows. "I saw this super-hot chick working at the mall the other day and I wanna go see if she's still there!"

"Stalk her, you mean," Lovina said with a glower.

"Eh, potato, potato," Gilbert said with a cheeky grin. "You guys in?"

"Yeah sure!" Antonio said before Lovi could respond with a resounding "NO."

"Awesome!" Gilbert grabbed the wrist of each of his friends and dragged them to his car.

o~O~o

"Look!" hissed Gilbert, jerking Antonio and Lovina behind a shelf. "That's her!"

"When were you in a _bookstore_?" demanded Lovina incredulously, shrugging Gilbert's hand off and walking out from behind the shelf to get a better look at the girl.

"Umm… You sure that's her?" she asked dubiously. She was _so_ not Gilbert's type. Usually he was into the kind of girl who demanded attention. The voluptuous, flashy sort of girl who wore designer clothes and perfect makeup. This girl was none of those things. She was unobtrusive, with un-styled wavy blonde hair and cerulean blue eyes behind half-rimmed glasses, and she wore a baggy red hoodie that hid much more than it showed—which meant Gilbert shouldn't have been into it at all. Lovina supposed the girl was pretty, in a quiet sort of way, but Gilbert never noticed discreetly pretty girls. He only noticed the ones who wanted to be seen, and this girl looked like she wanted to be seen right through.

"Yeah, of course!" To Lovina's surprise, he was gazing at her as if drinking in the sight of her. "Isn't she awesome?"

Antonio looked a little taken aback by Gilbert's preference of women too. "Not your usual type, _amigo_," he said tactfully.

"I know," Gil admitted. "Never thought I'd fall for a chick working in a bookstore, didja?" He chuckled. "Me neither."

"Are you going to go talk to her?" Toni asked.

"Of course!" Gilbert ran a hand through his fine white hair, carefully mussing it. "Wish the awesome me luck!"

"Like you need it," Antonio shot back, grinning.

Lovina turned away from him to hide her blush. _He's not even smiling at YOU, idiot_, she yelled at herself. But her boyfriend's smile had always been her favorite thing about him. Even when it wasn't directed at her, it knocked her breathless.

They really were an unlikely pair. He was twenty-six to her twenty—much too old for her, really—and when she was seventeen, he'd taken her in after she'd run away from home and had nowhere to go. They'd known each other before, so she'd felt safe moving in with him, but gradually their relationship had become something more than just that of roommates.

She'd never admit to anyone how much she loved him, maybe not even to him. It was hard for her to admit to herself sometimes. For so long she'd been hurt by loving people… But Toni, he was different. He would never hurt her. Still, it was a pretty hard pill to swallow. After being independent for so long, it was a real slap in the face to wake up one morning and realize your whole existence depended completely on one person.

"C'mere," she growled, grabbing her boyfriend's collar as Gilbert strutted off towards the counter to talk to the girl.

"What is it, _mi_—" The idiotic pet name was cut off as she tugged him down roughly and kissed him.

_This jerk. Why did he have to be so freaking irresistible?_ After a long moment of sharing a little piece of heaven with him, she let him go, glaring.

"Lovi," he murmured, green eyes soft. She hardly ever instigated anything, so when she did, he was always pleasantly surprised.

"Yeah, yeah, _ti amo_," she said grudgingly. "Just don't let it go to your head."

o~O~o

Gilbert strode confidently towards the cash register. _Wow. She's so… Just, wow_. Really, she was nothing like any girl he'd ever thought about dating, but… She just clicked. She had none of the things he normally found beautiful, but she was somehow the most gorgeous girl he'd ever laid eyes on. When he'd come in here last week to find a book about birds (since his pet had been acting a little odd lately) he'd never expected to meet a nerd goddess in the process.

"Hi," he said, then winced. _Really, Gil? Hi? What are you, six?_

She looked up from a book she was reading. Bright blue eyes widened in recognition behind her glasses. "Oh, hey, it's you! You're the guy who had the bird, right?" Her voice was breathy and quiet. It sent chills running up and down his spine—it was so…sensual. Which was kind of a shock when not much else about her was very sensual.

"And you're the girl who had the bird book for me," he said. "I wanted to drop back by and see you again."

"Really?" She flushed prettily pink, swiping a spiraling strand of hair out of her eyes.

Gil felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. _Man! She's even cuter when she's blushing!_ He hadn't believed it possible.

"Yeah, of course! I bet there are guys beating down the door here to see you, beautiful," he said with a wink, trying to keep it cool even though on the inside he'd suddenly reverted to a weak-legged preteen with no experience with girls. The feeling of…insecurity, that was the word, was unfamiliar to him. He hadn't really been afraid of rejection for a long time now. He wasn't sure she was worth the uncomfortable feeling.

Then he realized the fact that he was feeling it at all was probably a pretty good indication that she was.

Her flush deepened. "Oh, not really."

"Really? I'm surprised." He grinned crookedly at her. "My name's Gilbert Beilshmidt, by the way. What's yours?"

"I'm Madeline Williams," she said, offering a hand to shake.

He took it. Her hands were small and cool in his big, rough fingers. "Nice to meet you, Miss Williams."

When he didn't let go of her hand after the shake, Madeline turned even redder. "Oh, er, you can just call me Maddie."

"Maddie," he said, savoring the name. "So, Maddie, you free anytime soon? We could go to dinner or see a movie or something."

"Uh," she stuttered, blue eyes widening. She hid behind her screen of golden hair.

He brushed the hair from around her eyes. "Aww, don't hide those beautiful eyes of yours, Birdie. Now, what do you say? You wanna go out sometime?"

She averted those beautiful eyes, embarrassed. Which he found so irresistible it was probably illegal in most countries. "Umm… Yes, I think I can… Friday? Would that work?"

"Friday." He grabbed a Sharpie from behind the cash register, uncapped it, and held it poised against his forearm. "Got a phone number, Maddie?"

She told it to him, stumbling over the numbers. The cute little blonde kept getting redder and redder, probably thinking that her awkwardness was driving away her date, unaware that every time her blush deepened he was falling head-over-heels a little more.

"I'll call you," he promised when he finally got the number down. His arm was scored with cross-outs and scribbles, and he loved each and every one. "I can't wait till we get the chance to talk again."

She smiled shyly. "Me neither."

Gilbert left with that to collect his friends, feeling like the world was a very nice place all of a sudden.

o~O~o

Maddie couldn't concentrate on her book. That guy, Gilbert, was taking up every single inch of brain space she possessed.

_Gah, idiot!_ she berated herself. _You couldn't even remember your own phone number? How lame are you?_ She just hoped she hadn't made so much of a fool of herself that Gilbert wouldn't call. He was so handsome, and he'd seemed so courteous and honest. She liked him. A lot more than she probably should have after two such short conversations.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She flipped it open, expecting her brother on the line, but the voice she heard was totally different.

"Hey, Birdie! Told ya I couldn't wait!"

Warmth spread from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. "I'm glad you took me so seriously," she said. "I couldn't either."

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><p><strong>AN: So there you go! :D Hope everyone was IC enough. Please leave me reviews or PM me with comments and requests! Oh, and really, you guys should check out my PruCanFranada fic. It's shaping up to be pretty...interesting xD**


	5. What Peru Can Do To Him

**AN: *embarrassed that it took me this long to update* I'm sorry guys! But I hope this one's worth it... I really like Japan, and I hope I did justice to CelticGirl7's OC! Yay for Spanish :D I don't know if you guys knew this but I'm in love with the Spanish language and any country that speaks it. Which is nice cuz I live in Texas so I get to speak Spanish with Mexican people all the time! The other day a Mexican guy complimented my Spanish and it was the best thing ever! He was surprised that I wasn't Latina at all *dabs at tears of joy***

**Prompt: Traveling around America is one thing, but getting sick high in the Andes mountains of Peru while visiting said country before going to see Macchu Picchu and the Sacred Valley is a whole different story! Basically, a sick nation story! XD (from CelticGirl7)**

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><p><em>How embarrassing<em>, Japan thought, his face furiously red. _I cannot believe I'm so sick… I haven't been this sick since China's first attempt to make sushi…_ Now _that_ had been truly awful.

"Japan?" came a melodious voice from downstairs, rich with the tones of South America. "Are you okay?"

He cleared his throat to make himself sound less…well, less like he'd just vomited his guts out into the latrine of the guest bathroom. "I'm fine, Peru-san," he replied.

"Are you sure?" she called. "You sound kind of funny."

"Yes, _arigato_," he responded.

A small, dark brown cat poked its head around the corner, mewling plaintively. Japan's favorite of Peru's many pets looked concerned that her new friend was sick.

"It's okay, Gatitana," he told her. "I'm just a little…" Without warning, his stomach once again heaved its contents into his throat. Once he finished choking up his lunch yet again, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Ugh… Altitude sick."

From outside the door, Peru's parrot, Rosa, let out a caw. Japan hadn't realized that she was there. "Altitude sick!" she mimicked. "Altitude sick!"

"What?" demanded Peru's voice from downstairs. "What is Rosa saying?"

Japan groaned. "Nothing, Peru-san!" He gripped the porcelain toilet bowl and prayed that his hostess wouldn't come up to check on him, struggling to control a sudden bout of dizziness.

No such luck. The sound of her boot heels clacking up the stairs preceded her. "I don't think it's nothing. Where are you?"

At the sound of her mistress' voice, Gatitana took off running down the hall toward her. "Is he in there, _querida_?" Peru asked the cat in a cooing voice. The clack of her boots came closer.

Japan struggled to stand, or at least sit on his knees respectably. But the sickness and the vomiting together had sapped his strength. The best he could do was cling weakly to the toilet in an effort to remain upright.

"Japan, I know you're in here." The personification of Peru appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. She was tall for a woman, a few centimeters taller than Japan, with the caramel skin and dark hair and eyes of her native Inca people. She wore her hair in a long braid along her spine, with a clip in the shape of a golden Inca cross pinning her hair back on the left side. By way of clothes, she wore a floaty white blouse under a red poncho with a sun stitched on the front, a black skirt, and brown boots whose heels added several centimeters to her height. Without them, she and Japan would probably be about the same height. Perched on her shoulder was a large, hulking bird—another of her pets, Jose the condor. Gatitana wound about her ankles contentedly.

"_Dios mio!_" she cried, running over and kneeling at Japan's side. Her soft hands framed his face, feeling for a fever. While he was startled by her unexpected and unrestrained touch, he didn't jerk back as every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to do. For one thing, he was simply too weak for abrupt motions like that, and for another… Her touch was gentle and warm, and he didn't exactly want it to stop. "How did this happen? Please tell me you didn't drink any of the water during your stopover in Mexico City."

"No, it is nothing like that. I believe it is the altitude," he admitted unwillingly, drawing his face out of her grip. The regret he felt at doing so was disconcerting. "I apologize, I did not mean to spoil my visit, but I do not wish to inconvenience you in any way… Please, allow me to use your phone so someone may be sent to take me home."

"Nonsense!" Peru scowled at him. "You're in no condition to travel. You must stay here until you're well again!"

Japan protested. "No, please, Peru-san, I don't want to force you to care for me…"

The smile she gave him was accompanied by an eye-roll. "Oh please, Japan. I _want_ to. You're my friend, so I'll take care of you."

"_Arigato_," he said weakly, unsure how to respond to that easy admission. He was used to subterfuge and reading between the lines, but Peru wasn't like that. She was honest and bright, an open book.

"Can you stand?" she asked.

"Um, _hai_, I believe so." Drawing on all his strength, he managed to make it to his feet. Although he wobbled a little, he managed to stay upright.

"Here," Peru said, looping an arm around his waist and drawing one of his arms over her shoulder. "Let me help you."

Japan was about to have a heart attack from all the touching, but he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other until he was back in the room Peru had set up for him.

"Here." She lowered him to the bed and then stood back up and smiled at him, brushing his straight black hair out of his face in a motherly way. "I'll go make something to eat in case you feel better soon. Get some sleep in the meantime."

"_Hai_," he responded, blushing. How was she so casual with touch? She must know what it did to him.

His mind blanked when he realized how that had sounded, even in his own head_. I mean that she must know Eastern countries aren't as familiar as Western countries! That's it._ He was just here to sightsee and spend a few days with Peru, a formality between nations with good political relationships.

Exhausted from jet lag and sickness, he fell asleep quickly and found himself dreaming about kind dark chocolate-colored eyes. And in dreams, he wasn't as awkward, and he didn't have to look away whenever the owner of those dark chocolate eyes smiled at him.

o~O~o

Japan woke up to a sight he'd have been surprised to see anywhere but in Peru's house. And that would be a llama's face snuffling at his.

"Good morning, Maria," he said, retreating under the covers to protect his face from her wet muzzle. "It is nice to see you too." Avoiding getting too close to the affectionate llama, he peeked out from under the coverlet at the clock. It looked like he'd been asleep for four hours or so. It was surprising that he'd managed to stay asleep so long.

As a result of his long nap he was feeling much better, well enough to stand on his own. He did so and made his way painstakingly downstairs, trying not to bring back any nausea or dizziness, Maria clomping along behind.

The sound of Peruvian music floated up the staircase, and then something else—singing. Peru was singing along to the music. For a moment Japan just had to pause and listen, enraptured by her voice. The sultry tone of Spanish words combined with the lively music was practically hypnotic.

Blushing, he shook himself. It was inappropriate to be having these thoughts about his fellow nation. She was just the personification of a nation that his country was on good terms with, nothing more.

He forgot that he wasn't supposed to be thinking romantic thoughts about Peru when he walked into her kitchen and caught a glimpse of her.

She was dancing as she cooked, twirling from one end of the kitchen to another, her poncho and skirt flaring as she did so. Her feet danced a complicated pattern in time to the beat, and she sang and laughed happily.

Japan had never seen anything more beautiful in his centuries of life.

Unable to risk breaking the spell, he watched her as she danced and sang. She glowed with cheerfulness and a simple love of living. It was humbling to watch. Her country was war-torn and lagged behind much of the world socially and economically, but she could still dance and laugh like that.

Once, not too long ago, Japan had been war-torn and lagging too. He hadn't been so cheerful once he reopened himself to the world and realized how much he had missed in the time he'd spent in isolation. He certainly hadn't felt like dancing.

Watching her… For once, he really felt like dancing.

But he didn't. Wanting didn't change the fact that he was shy, and that he still wasn't sure what these warm jumbled feelings he had when he looked at her really were.

After a while of this Peru noticed him. "Oh, Japan!" she exclaimed. "You're awake!"

"_Hai_," he responded. "Thank you for letting me stay, I feel much better."

"I'm glad!" Peru grabbed his hand, making warmth shoot through him, and led him to the table. "Here, let me get you some food. Are you feeling good enough to eat?"

"Yes, please," he replied. He was ravenous, having been on an empty stomach for so long.

She danced over to the stove and spooned out a plate of…whatever she was making. Japan didn't know all the names of her foods, but he found them all very delicious. When she set the plate in front of him, he did his best to keep some semblance of table etiquette, but he found himself scarfing it down.

"Oh, my apologies," he said, dabbing at his mouth and averting his eyes, embarrassed. "But it's delicious."

She laughed. "_Gracias_!"

Despite the lingering sickness, Japan was happier than he'd been in a long time just sitting there and talking to Peru over dinner. He didn't regret missing their visit to Machu Picchu or the Sacred Valley—she was a sight more interesting and exotic and lovely than both of those put together.

He wanted to tell her that, but the words were pinned to his tongue. It was hard for him to say what he meant bluntly like that.

She tilted her head slightly to the side, confused by his sudden silence. "Japan? Is there something wrong?"

"Oh. No, no," he responded. "Nothing is wrong."

She accepted easily. "Okay!"

Suddenly the world tilted around Japan. When he came back to himself he found his cheek against the tile floor, surrounded by the shattered glass of his plate and the remains of his dinner.

"Japan!" Peru turned him over, but her voice seemed far away. "Are you okay?"

Woozily, he replied, "Dizzy…" He was fascinated by the slim dark line of her braid. His brain was foggy, and that lowered his inhibitions enough to let him reach out and tug on it, chuckling.

"You're delirious," she told him, hauling him to his feet. Most of his weight leaned on her. "Come on, we're putting you on the couch."

"Peru… You dance so well…" he told her as he stumbled over to the couch. "I liked watching you dance…"

A smile flashed across her face. "Really?"

"_Hai_." He found himself slipping back into Japanese in his delirium. "_You're lovely when you dance. Well, you're lovely all the time, but especially when you dance…_"

"_Como_?" she asked, brow wrinkling in confusion. "What did you say?"

"You're lovely," he whispered.

"_Lo siento_, I didn't catch that. But tell you what, you take another nap and I'll take you dancing before you leave Peru, okay? Promise."

"Pinky swear?" he asked childishly.

She laughed. "Yes."

As the world was fading he felt the slightest brush across his forehead as her pinky locked with his. Her lips?

He hoped so.

o~O~o

_The custom of pinky swearing comes from the traditional Japanese myth that people who are destined to be together are connected by red strings of fate tied around their pinky fingers, binding them together no matter how great a distance between them. When you lock pinkies with someone else, you create an unbreakable connection—another red string of fate that binds you to one another forever._

o~O~o

"Ready?" asked Peru cheerfully as Japan descended the staircase. It was his last day in Peru, and as promised, Peru was taking him dancing.

"Absolutely." Japan didn't waver as he descended the staircase. He'd gotten over the altitude sickness a few days ago, but he hadn't gotten over his embarrassment at his reprehensible behavior while sick. At least she didn't know what he'd said to her, that he'd called her lovely. As true as it was, he couldn't forgive himself for having said it so openly like that.

But since then, he'd found it more and more true. She was lovely, inside and out. She'd cared for him patiently and tenderly while he was sick, falling asleep at his bedside and cooking him the most delicious things to take his mind off the bouts of dizziness that took over every once in a while, causing him to drop things and faint and babble like he had the first night.

Peru drove them through Lima, which was coming to life with the night, to the _fiesta_. When they arrived she tugged Japan with her through the milling throng of Peruvian citizens to the dance floor.

"Let me teach you how to salsa!" she exclaimed, tugging him close. Japan turned furiously red.

"No, it is okay, if you do not mind I will just watch you…"

"Of course you have to dance! Here, put your hand on my waist," she ordered, grabbing his other hand and placing her free hand on his shoulder. "Don't be shy!"

Reddening by the second, Japan meekly did as he was told. "Are you sure I cannot…"

"_Si_! Now pay attention. It goes front step, back to middle, back step, back to middle, left step, back to middle, right step back to middle. Simple enough, right?"

"Um, I suppose." Japan did his best to emulate her. But it was hard—whatever she did, he had to do backwards. And he wasn't leading like he was supposed to.

"Come on Japan, use your hips!" she ordered. "It makes it easier."

"I do not think that I can!" he protested. "I do not understand Western dance."

She sighed and released him. "Okay, if you want you can sit and watch me. I can tell you're not enjoying yourself."

"_Arigato_," he said gratefully, retreating to the fringes of the dance floor. "I will enjoy watching you, Peru-san."

Smiling, she waved to him and then promptly snatched another partner from the lines of available men. Her new partner was tall and broad, and he was a much better dancer than Japan. Peru laughed as she danced with him, dipping and twirling effortlessly to the music.

Unexpectedly, Japan felt the burn of jealousy. She looked so happy with her new partner. He couldn't dance like that, couldn't make her laugh like that. And he wanted to. Well, dancing was optional, but he desperately wanted to be the one to put that smile on her face.

After a while, Peru left her partner, who handed her a rose from his lapel, and came back over to Japan. He hated the sight of that rose in her rich dark hair. The emotion surprised him—anger was the rarest emotion for him, and it only came when he really cared about something, like food or manga.

"Japan! Are you having fun?" she asked, breathless.

"Yes, thank you," he responded. Then he hesitated. "Um, Peru-san? Do you think you could try to teach me how to…salsa…again?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yes!" She grabbed his hand and led him back to the floor.

This time he actually tried to keep up with her, blushing every time his booted feet stepped on hers. She always laughed it off, her dark chocolate eyes bright with happiness.

She was so lovely. Before Japan knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and brushed his lips across her cheek.

A little gasp of shock came from both of them. "I am so sorry! Forgive me," Japan said, blushing furiously. _I cannot believe I just kissed her!_

"No, it's okay," she said dazedly. "It was…nice."

"Oh." Japan went back to watching his feet.

"Japan?"

"Yes?"

Her lips met his briefly, so briefly his eyes didn't even have time to close after flying wide with surprise. "_T-te amo_." He'd never heard Peru sound uncertain before.

His ears burned, and he mentally kicked himself for not brushing up on his Spanish any better. "I'm sorry… What does that mean?"

"It means… I love you," she mumbled, averting her eyes.

Oh. That explained that. He hadn't thought to need romantic phrases for his conversational Spanish. "Oh."

She blushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, it is okay." The words came out with surprising ease. Somehow, refraining from speaking just wasn't enough anymore, because he had something of monumental importance that he had to say. "_Taisetsu_."

"What does that mean?" she asked, her eyes downcast.

"It means you're precious to me, Peru," he said, tilting her chin up. "It's how we say I love you in Japan."

"Oh!" She grinned widely.

When she kissed him again, he felt no need to push her away. None of his normal careful lines seemed to apply—he felt no shame in enfolding her in his arms and kissing her back.

Pulling back a little, Peru grinned. "Hey Japan… Do you really need to go home tomorrow?"

He grinned back. "Not really. I think I could spend a few more days here."

"Good." Her lips met his again with startling Latin passion, which didn't bother him as much as it should have.

_Very good. Very good indeed_.

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><p><strong>AN: So jah! There you go, people! I had so much fun with the salsa as well, because I'm a terrible dancer but I love the salsa. I can relate to you, Japan!<strong>

**Japan: *is busy refraining from speaking***

**Well okay then!**

**I wanted to note that, sometime in the future, I'll be doing a truth or dare chapter, so send in your requests for truths and dares along with your chapter requests! If it's popular I might do more than one.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Journal of a Non Suicidal Canadian

**AN: Hehe you guys probably thought I was being sarcastic with the title huh? But I'm not. This is my own personal rant against suicidal!Canada. I mean, I could see why he would be suicidal, but why does he have to be? Maybe he doesn't mind. MAYBE he's perfectly fine with being ignored.**

**Canada killers are dead to me. -.-**

**Prompt: Non-suicidal Canada**

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><p><em>Dear Journal,<em>

_Hi, it's me, Matthew Williams, or Mattie if you prefer. I think, since it's my first entry here, I should probably tell you a little about myself. It gets kind of complicated, seeing as I'm the personification of a nation and all._

_Haha. I just sounded kind of like you're a real person, journal. Well, that's okay. Real people don't tend to notice me much, but I'll get to that in a minute._

_First off, I'm blonde with blue eyes and longish hair and glasses. I have a pet polar bear named Kumajirou. I have houses in every Canadian province and territory, but my favorite is in Quebec. I speak two languages, French and English, and a few scattered words in most every other language there is._

_Okay now that we've got the basics I'll tell you about that whole nation bit. I'm the physical embodiment of the idea that formed the country of Canada. My brother's name is The United States of America (but I just call him Al, short for Alfred) and I was raised by the French Republic (before he was a republic, but he got his name changed since I was a kid). Every nation has a personification that embodies the qualities of most of their populace, or the country itself. And the other nations, well, they don't notice me much. They see right through me most of the time._

_I think it's because of America. He tends to be louder than me and he's always the first to invent things (except for the zipper, and insulin. Those are mine!) and get involved in wars and stuff. But I prefer to mind my own business. It's easier that way, you know? The quiet life._

_I suppose it would make most people sad, the fact that almost nobody remembers my name and when they see me at all they always think I'm my brother, so I get slapped by a lot of girls and hit by my best friend Cuba a lot. But I don't mind, really. Some people recognize me, and that's good enough. America, Papa, and Prussia always know who I am. I don't need to be the center of attention all the time like America._

_In fact, it's kind of nice. I avoid a lot of drama that way. When the others are all fighting at the world meetings, I can just sit there and play with Kumajirou without having to worry that one of the others is going to try to strangle me for every word I say, like England does to Papa._

_So, yeah. Maybe I should be more concerned about it, but I don't think so. I'm perfectly happy just being me, even if it does get old having to remind everyone who I am all the time._

_Well, until next time, journal! It's getting pretty late, and there's a world meeting tomorrow. Don't worry, there will definitely be plenty to tell about that. Au revoir!_

_~Mattie_

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><p><strong>AN: Short and concise. I wasn't sure how to make a whole fic of him not being suicidal, so the journal entry was born. I think it's the shortest chapter I've ever written. o.O Oh well! I feel appeased in my desire to make him non-suicidal.<strong>

**Don't forget to leave me prompts for future chapters and for the upcoming Truth or Dare chapter!**


	7. An Unlikely Lunch Date

**AN: Hey there everybody! *waves* Here's the prompt for today! I must apologize, I'm not sure how well I did justice to Maiya123's request-I'm not very familiar with Hungary or Lithuania but I did my best! It definitely was very interesting and challenging to write, so I thank you for that :)**

**Oh and please don't forget to leave me requests or a truth or dare for the upcoming truth or dare chapter (which may or may not even happen if I don't get requests, people)! *ferocious glare [Just kidding! I'm sure I'm capable of coming up with dares, it's just more fun if people request them]***

**Prompt: Hungary and Lithuania go on a date that Poland set them up on (from Maiya123)**

**PS: If any of you like Ouran High School Host Club, see if you can catch my reference in here~!**

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><p>Lithuania hefted a load of Russia's laundry, trying not to grumble to himself. There was no point in it. Grumbling didn't get the laundry done. And goodness knows the laundry needed to be done, or Mr. Russia would get that creepy purple glow again and… Well, that was best to be avoided. At all costs.<p>

Just as he passed the phone on his way to the laundry room, it began to ring. He paused and switched the laundry basket so it rested on his hip and he would have a free hand to pick up the phone.

"Hello, Russia's residence. Lithuania speaking."

"Lithuania!" cried a very familiar voice at the other end of the line. "I was like totes calling for you!"

"Poland?" asked Lithuania, surprised. "Um. It's been a while."

"Ikr?" Poland snickered. "It's been what, like, a bajillion years or something?"

"Two, I think."

"Yeah I know!"

Lithuania sighed and put the laundry on the floor. It would have to wait—a conversation with Poland could take a while. Maybe Latvia or Estonia would walk by and he could convince them to get the laundry started for him. "What did you want?"

"Okay so, like, I totally scored you a dime of a date!" Poland squealed. "You gotta get all ready okay? I'll pick you up in half an hour, kay? Kay."

"What?" Lithuania cried. "You can't be serious! A blind date? With no warning? I have chores to finish for Mr. Russia!"

"Oh, don't be so boring! Doesn't Russia have two other chore monkeys to do his work for him?"

"_Chore monkeys_?" Lithuania was outraged. "We're not _chore monkeys_! Whose fault do you think it is that I have to work for Mr. Russia in the first place, Poland, you traitor?"

"Wow. Way to cut deep." Poland sighed. "I was just trying to help you get out and have a little fun. C'mon, please! This girl is wicked hot, pinky promise!"

Lithuania sighed. "No, Poland. I can't."

"Yes you can. Don't worry, you have a whole half hour to change your mind before I get there!" Poland said gleefully, completely ignoring Lithuania's spluttered protests.

"What? No! I said no and I mean it! Poland?" The only response was the dial tone. Slowly he lowered the phone back onto the cradle and picked up the laundry.

_Well, I guess it might be fun… I haven't been on a date in a long time…_ Then he thought about it. _Then again, it WAS Poland who picked this girl out for me…_

Still. It couldn't hurt. The date couldn't last more than an hour, and maybe Estonia would be willing to pick up some slack for him…

o~O~o

"I'm totally stoked that I didn't have to drag you out of the house!" Poland said cheerfully. "It's so much easier when people just come and I don't even have to make them!"

Lithuania glanced nervously at his old friend. The more he thought about this, the more he was regretting his decision to come. Poland had fuzz where he should have brains, as Lithuania had discovered soon after meeting him. The only things he seemed to care about were snacks, the color pink, horses, and…well, that pretty much summed it up. If Poland thought this girl was so amazing, it was pretty unlikely that Lithuania would share his opinion.

"I told her to meet you at this café." Poland giggled like a schoolgirl. "This is gonna be so awesome!"

Lithuania sighed. "Have you been spending time with Prussia recently?"

"Yeah, why?"

"No reason." Lithuania turned the corner and saw the café at the end of the street. "So, do I know this girl?"

"Uh-huh! But you don't talk to her much cuz you're just awkward," Poland responded easily, crushing Lithuania's feelings without even noticing. As always.

"Oh," Lithuania managed. _Why does Poland have to be so mean?_ Now he _really_ wasn't looking forward to seeing whoever it was that was waiting for him at the café.

"Look, there she is!" sang Poland. Stretching up on his tiptoes, he waved to a girl sitting at a table for two, idly sipping a glass of water.

Lithuania's jaw dropped halfway to the pavement. "Poland! Are you completely mad? That's _Hungary_!"

Sure enough, it was her. The pale brown hair, the wide emerald eyes, they were unmistakable. Lithuania had been terrified of Hungary for a long time, ever since she beat up Prussia _and_ Spain _and_ France to defend her ex-husband, Austria. Poland hadn't been wrong about her appearance—she was lovely, of course, but her beauty was a flower that hid a poisoned thorn.

Hungary looked just as surprised to see Lithuania as he was to see her. She hid it well, but he could tell she was taken aback by Poland's dismal matchmaking skills. "Oh, hello, Poland, Lithuania," she said, rising. She had many manly habits, like rising to greet people. Lithuania had heard that not only could she fight like a man, she had thought she _was_ one for a long time. _Why would I want to date a girl who acts like a man?_

"Heya, Hungary! You know my old buddy Lithuania, right?" Poland grabbed Lithuania's shoulders and thrust him a little violently at Hungary. Lithuania stumbled forward and almost fell. He would have, too, if Hungary hadn't caught him.

It took him a second to realize that his face was level with her…erm…maidenly _terra incognita_. With a squeak, he jerked back and almost fell into Poland. The blonde nation snickered. Lithuania turned scarlet. _How did I ever think Hungary was manly, again?_

Hungary didn't seem to have noticed how embarrassed Lithuania was at having Poland practically shove his face into her breasts. She simply answered Poland's question with, "Yes, I do, but I'm afraid I don't know him very well."

"No sweat, that'll change today. Well, have fun, you two!" Poland winked conspiratorially at Lithuania. "Don't do anything _too_ crazy!" Then he skipped off like he had just made their day by setting them up on what was shaping up to be the most awkward date in human history.

Lithuania scuffed his foot, trying to avoid looking at Hungary. His cheeks were still burning.

"Won't you sit down?" she asked politely after an awkward silence. She seated herself first to demonstrate that it was okay.

"Oh!" The blush crept back. "Yes, sorry. Thank you."

To his surprise, she put a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. "I'm sorry," she said when he looked embarrassed by her laughter. "But you're so cute."

"Huh?" His azure blue eyes flew wide.

"Cute," she repeated, smiling. His heart thudded. "I don't mean to be forward, but I just thought your blush was cute."

"Oh. Um." Lithuania had no idea how to respond to that. He was too used to Mr. Russia's house, where likes and dislikes—any passion of any kind—was stamped down immediately, silenced before it could infect anyone else. Hungary was the opposite of everything he'd grown used to. She was passionate, loud, and not afraid to get angry or violent. Next to her Lithuania felt very small and quiet, a timid mouse to her powerful she-cat.

Luckily the waitress showed up then, to take Lithuania's drink order, rescuing him from having to answer Hungary's blunt statement. She definitely looked like a citizen after Poland's own heart, loudly snapping pink bubble gum and wearing exactly what Poland would have worn had he been born a girl—as little as possible. Her white button-up shirt had one too many buttons undone, and her skirt was much too short for modesty. She wore her blonde hair in a ponytail at the top of her head, and had wide blue eyes that looked _very_ interested in what she saw.

Completely ignoring the fact that Lithuania was sitting opposite a girl—she apparently also had Poland's talent for ignoring what she didn't care to see—she dimpled at Lithuania. "Can I get you anything?" she asked. Somehow her voice made it seem like she was asking two things at once.

Lithuania's eyes widened and he glanced at Hungary. She was watching the exchange with a perfectly normal expression. Obviously she didn't care if the waitress was hitting on her date.

It still embarrassed him, though. "Um, I want some water, please? I'll need a few minutes to look at the menu though…"

"If you see anything you like, just let me know," she said with a wink, leaning forward perhaps a little too far to hand him the menu.

Lithuania averted his eyes, reddening even more. The waitress chuckled but left.

_What's wrong with her, running around like that? _he cried internally. Suddenly a flashback of almost falling into Hungary's chest filled his vision. _Ack!_ He blushed even more.

Hungary snickered. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said weakly. "That wasn't very classy of her…"

"She's one of Poland's citizens. At least _one_ of them had to be as strange as he is," she reasoned.

"I suppose you're right…" _I was right… This IS the most awkward date in history…_

They sat there in silence, Lithuania studying the menu, until the waitress came back with his drink. She flirted a little more, making him turn more and more red, but he studiously ignored her attempts to get him to look down her shirt. He'd never do that to a woman he didn't know, even if she was practically begging for it.

Eventually, though, the conversation started up again, beginning with a comment Lithuania made about the weather. Somehow the discussion made its way to Hungary's hot springs, comparing hers to those in Japan, and then they moved on to sports and other things about their nations. Since they'd never spoken much, they had plenty of topics to choose from, and it took a long time to exhaust themselves on learning about one another.

To be honest, Lithuania had never really been on dates or had a girlfriend. Usually when he went on dates, they were ones that Poland had set him up on—like this one. And they rarely went well. Lithuania wasn't like Poland. He wasn't forward enough to gain a girl's attention.

Hungary, on the other hand, captured his whole attention without even trying. He'd never noticed how pretty she was before, and how many interesting things she had to say. She made fun of the shameless waitress behind her back, making Lithuania laugh nervously. Whenever she idly toyed with a strand of her pale brown hair, he couldn't help noticing that it looked soft and glowed like a halo around her face. Her easy smile and laughter could almost make him forget how easily she could knock Prussia senseless with her frying pan—although honestly, one her most attractive qualities was her ability to slam around guys who annoyed her.

_Her eyes look prettiest when she's laughing_, he decided after their lunches were finished. They'd hardly noticed the empty plates.

"I haven't laughed this much in a long time," she confessed. "At Austria's house, everything is so quiet… He just plays the piano all the time, and he never wants to talk to me…"

Before Lithuania could stop himself, the words on his tongue came spilling out. "I can't imagine why. You're lots of fun to talk to."

Hungary smiled at him. "Thank you, Lithuania! How sweet."

Lithuania hid his blush behind his overlong brown hair. More and more on this date, he got the feeling that he was in great danger of falling for Hungary very, very hard. But she talked to him the same way he'd heard her talk to Italy, whom she'd raised. It made his heart clench painfully to think that she thought of him as a child, but he didn't know what to do about it. He was just naturally innocent, and he'd always been able to hide behind bigger, stronger countries like Poland and Russia, so he'd never needed to be brave.

The flirtatious waitress brought them the check, and Lithuania paid for Hungary's lunch. She thanked him and touched his hand, which made him blush furiously and stutter his assurances that it was no problem, even though Russia paid him next to nothing. That was a better way to spend his money than any he could think of.

"How are you getting home?" he asked, concerned when the idea occurred to him. "Austria's house is kind of far away…"

"I took the train," she told him as they walked away from the café. "I'll be fine!"

"At least let me walk you to the station," he said, concerned.

"I'd like that." She smiled dazzlingly at him and reached over to take his hand without a hint of embarrassment, but even his neck began to turn red from the sudden, unexpected contact.

"I'm sorry," she said, finally beginning to look a little uncomfortable when she noticed him practically turning purple with mortification. "Do you not want me to?" Without waiting for a reply she began to withdraw her fingers.

"No," he mumbled, tightening his fingers in hers to prevent her from moving away. "It's okay… I like it…"

A pleased grin spread across her face, and she wriggled her fingers to fit more securely in his. "I like it too."

Lithuania felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin as they walked to the train station like that, hand in hand. On one hand, he was so nervous that he thought his lunch might make a reappearance, and on the other, he wanted to hug Poland until his ribs cracked. It was not a good combination. It was a struggle to keep up an intelligent conversation the whole walk there.

When they arrived, Hungary looked disappointed. "We should have taken a longer way here," she murmured, so low that Lithuania wasn't sure if he was supposed to have heard. It made him happy to hear, though—she _couldn't_ just think of him as a kid when she said something like that, could she? Especially since her train was already here. If they'd taken the long way, she would have missed her train, and then she would have been stuck at the station for another hour waiting for the next one.

"Umm… This was fun," he offered tentatively. _Come on, Lithuania, be brave like Poland! _"We should do it again."

Hungary grinned widely. "Yes, I'd like that very much!"

He studied his boots. "I suppose… I'll call you? At Austria's?"

"That's the best way to reach me," she responded. The insistent whistle of her train, signaling its departure, interrupted them. "_Stoppolás_," she swore. "Goodbye, Lithuania. Thanks again for lunch!"

"Goodbye…" The pressure of her hand in his was gone abruptly as she vanished inside the train. He flexed his fingers, which felt surprisingly empty.

"Hey!" He looked up to see Hungary leaning out of the window of a nearby car, waving goodbye.

He walked over to her. Her emerald eyes laughed as she said, "I know I already said goodbye, but… Remind me to thank Poland next time I see him?"

Lithuania's heart was a balloon in his chest. "I'll call and thank him for both of us."

"Thanks," she said. Lithuania was suddenly very aware of how close she was, near enough to smell the fresh flower in her hair and feel her breath fanning his face.

Without his permission his body moved, his arms reaching out to envelop her in them and his lips coming down on hers.

Hungary didn't hesitate to react to his kiss. By the time he realized what he'd done, she'd already wrapped an arm around him too and was kissing him back. If she hadn't done that, he probably would have run off to find the nearest hole to hide in until he got over his humiliation, but with her holding him there… Well, even without her arm restraining him, he wasn't going anywhere.

The train began to move, and Hungary was carried away from him. He flushed, but started walking to keep pace with the train. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for? I kissed you back, didn't I?" With a wink, she blew him another kiss. "See you soon, _drágám_!"

It took Lithuania a second to sort through his meager knowledge of Hungarian. When he realized that she'd called him darling, he turned pink, but he managed to respond, "Y-yes…_mielasis_."

Hungary's grin grew wide. "Goodbye!"

"Goodbye!" Lithuania waved until her train had faded into the horizon. Then he practically skipped home, so happy that even doing Russia's laundry wasn't enough to dampen his mood.

Later that night, he called Poland. He felt like he owed the blonde matchmaker a call.

"Y'ello, you got Poland here!"

"Hello, Poland, it's Lithuania."

"Are you for serious? You're like, calling me? So the date was uber, am I right?"

Lithuania rolled his eyes at his friend's stupidity. Then he caught himself. Poland had to have _some_ kind of intelligence going for him—how else could he have picked out a match for Lithuania, a match he'd never have considered for himself but now had him on cloud nine?

"…Very."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I love how like the one word I know in Lithuanian is a pet name xD From watching Hetalia I can make a love confession in like 10 languages even if my basic conversational skills in that language = 0<strong>

**It's friggin educational, parents. Believe it.**


	8. Family

**AN: I loved this chapter! Ariana-tan, I am sending you a big bone-crushing virtual hug for requesting this. It was so much fun! I hope you enjoy it.**

**Just be forewarned, it's a pretty long chapter (by my standards, at least, but hey-pregnancy is a 9-month thing!). If anyone's watched Clannad, it provided a lot of the inspiration for this chapter. And if you haven't watched Clannad, DO, especially if you're into angst and romance. It's really good!**

**Prompt: Ooh, could you do a pregnancy fic? fem!Canada could be the pregnant one, with Prussia as the father. And ... England (also female) could make an appearance as the mother of America's baby. fem!England and fem!Canada could become closer friends, and America and Prussia could learn to tolerate each other, as they both go through their pregnancies. (from Ariana-tan)**

* * *

><p>Gilbert woke up because the bed was cold. He could've sworn that when he'd fallen asleep, his wife had been in bed with him, cuddled into his side.<p>

_Yep. Definitely, _he thought as memories of last night came rushing back. What could he say? They were newlyweds. And fresh out of high school, no less. They did hot steamy stuff at night.

Sighing, Gilbert stretched and stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to get out of bed just yet. He was always lazy on Sundays, his day off from working at the music store. During the week, Maddie could get him to do stuff around the house, but on Sundays she might as well have been married to a lamp for all the work he did.

Finally the cold drove him out of bed. Winter had been pretty brutal in their new apartment. It wasn't the nicest place, and the heating wasn't really up to par. Gil didn't mind though. Whatever place they lived in, if he had Maddie in it with him, it was home.

Gil slid out from under the covers, shivering violently. He climbed into some new clothes as quickly as he could manage, hoping it would warm him up quickly. Then he went about hunting down and tossing all their clothes into the laundry. Maddie liked a clean house, and especially a clean room. Gilbert wasn't very clean, but he was making an effort for her. She worked hard nights and weekends waitressing at a nearby café, and during the day she attended classes at the local college to get her teaching degree. Gilbert wasn't interested in college, but he worked hard to support her dream. Her parents were pitching in, but they still had to pay for half her tuition, and that meant stretching pennies pretty tight sometimes.

Speaking of Maddie, where had she gotten to? "Hey Birdie?" he called.

There was a squeak and the sound of something crashing to the floor from the bathroom.

"Maddie? You okay?" he asked with concern as he made his way over to the bathroom quickly. He rapped with his knuckles on the door. "Birdie, what's going on in there?"

"Nothing!" she cried. He heard her shuffling things around inside. "It's nothing."

"Birdie, I can tell when you're lying," he told her, rolling his eyes. She really was an awful liar. "What's wrong? You got cramps or something?" Now _that_ had been a shock the first month they were married. She was truly a terror when her cramps got bad.

"No." Her voice was small.

"I'm coming in," he warned her a second before doing so. "Now tell me what's wrong."

Maddie was on the bathroom floor, fully dressed and looking like she'd been up for hours. But what concerned him was the dumbfounded look in those gorgeous wide blue eyes. She looked like she was in shock.

Now he was really worried. "Birdie?"

She jumped and averted her eyes from him, turning pink. She was turning something in the fingers of her right hand. "Um, Gil, I have…something to tell you…"

"What?" Apprehension growing by the second, he knelt in front of her and kissed her quickly. "Tell me."

Wordlessly she handed him the thing she'd been messing with. Shock blossomed through Gil's mind too when he saw what it was.

It was a pregnancy test. And it had a pink plus sign on it.

For a full minute his mouth worked and no sound came out. Maddie was equally as silent, staring into his face like she needed reassurance.

"We're… You're… A baby?" he finally managed. "You're sure?"

"Yes." Her delicate hands pressed into her purple-sweater-clad stomach where a tiny life was growing. "I took the test three times."

"I…" Gil reached for his wife, and she willingly climbed into his lap, keeping one hand pressed to her stomach as if to protect it. Gently, he slid his fingers through hers, pressing his wide rough hand over hers to feel their child inside her. Of course, he couldn't feel a bump yet, much less a kick, but it still sent warmth shooting through all the shock. He could feel _something_ there. An awareness, maybe. Just knowing their baby was there inside of her was enough to melt his shock into adoration. "_Gott_, Birdie. This is wonderful. I'm so happy."

"Me too, Gil." She smiled at him joyfully, but it faded quickly. "I don't know how we're going to manage… With my school, and your job… How are was going to get enough money to—"

"Shh," he said, silencing her with a kiss. "We'll figure it out. We've gotten by so far and been happy, and this kiddo's going to be the icing on the cake."

That made the smile come back. "You're right."

Gilbert hoped he hadn't just lied to the love of his life. _No_, he told himself vehemently. _If I have to work eighteen-hour days I will, for the kid. _Gott_, how do I love it this much already? I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl yet._

But that didn't matter. This little human being inside her, that was the product of their love for one another, and already he could feel his heart making room for one more thing he couldn't live without—Maddie, and this baby, _his_ baby. This had to be the happiest moment of his life, even happier than the moment Maddie had told him she'd spend the rest of her life with him, no matter what.

o~O~o

Gilbert shook his leg nervously without realizing it as the phone, set on speaker so both Gil and Maddie could talk, rang. _C'mon, dude, man up!_ he told himself. _What are you so awkward for? You've already called both your parents…_ He couldn't imagine why the call that was making him the most nervous was to his little brother.

"Hello?" said Ludwig on the other end of the line.

Steeling his courage, Gilbert responded, "Yo, little bro! What's up?"

"Um. Nothing interesting. I'm just leaving the library…"

"But it's Sunday. How is that even possible?"

He could almost hear the blush in Ludwig's voice. "Did I say library? I meant…er…"

"Were you hanging out with a girl?" demanded Gilbert, nosy and proud of it.

"W-what? No!" Ludwig spluttered. He was totally lying.

"You were!" crowed Gilbert. "Tell me all about it!"

Ludwig sighed in defeat. "She's a year younger than me… And Italian… We were just hanging out at the park…"

Maddie interrupted. "Leave him alone, Gilbert. His love life is none of your business," she scolded. "Hi, Ludwig."

"Oh, hello Maddie." Ludwig sounded relieved to hear her voice. "It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has," she responded. "You have to come visit soon, okay?"

"Sure," he responded. "So, what's going on?"

Maddie turned pink, even though it was only a phone conversation. "Oh! Yes, we had something to tell you… You see, Gil and I… That is, I'm…"

Ludwig broke in with his characteristic bluntness. "Did my brother get you pregnant?"

"Hey!" protested Gil. "When you say it like that it sounds like I'm some sort of pervert! We _are_ married now, you know! We're allowed to do baby-making stuff now!"

Maddie looked like she was about to die of mortification. "Gil!" she whined.

"How many months has it been…?" Ludwig trailed off.

"Five, for your information!" snapped Gilbert. "I swear, I didn't do anything to her before we got married!"

"Why do I get the feeling that was mostly due to her?"

"I'm so punching you next time I see you!"

"Gil!" Maddie did the only thing she could to distract him—she kissed him. "Sorry about that, Ludwig," she apologized, pulling away much too quickly. Gilbert pouted. It was no fair! She never kissed him first. He should at least get the chance to enjoy it whenever she did.

"It's all right. Congratulations, you two."

"Thank you." She squeezed Gil's knee as a sort of silent apology for getting his hopes up like that. "Well, I have to call my brother now. See you soon?"

"Definitely. If you've already told Mom and Dad you should probably be expecting a visit from us next weekend," he said with amusement. "I'll let you go now."

"Bye Luddie! Stay awesome, kid!" Gilbert chimed in. "Oh, and you better be prepared to spill your guts about that Italian chick next time I see you, got it?"

Ludwig sighed and hung up.

Maddie made a sound of annoyance. "Gil, do you have to do that to him?"

"Do what?" he protested.

"Try to annoy him," she responded.

"I don't _have_ to, but it's fun!" He leaned over her and kissed her neck playfully, forcing her back down on the couch. "Hey, speaking of fun, we still have like half a day left of our weekend…"

"Gil, stop," she said, blushing. "We have to tell Alfred the news."

Gilbert made a face, nuzzling into her shoulder to hide it. He didn't particularly care for his brother-in-law, and Maddie knew it, but she still got mad at him whenever he complained about visiting or calling him. "Aww, c'mon…"

"Later," she told him firmly, pushing on his shoulders. "Let me up."

"You know, we have to get all this in within the next nine months," he warned her. "Once we're parents we're going to be too swamped."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course that's the only think you're worried about missing out on once we're parents."

"Yeah, but that's your fault for making me wait, wasn't it?" He hadn't lied to Ludwig—they really hadn't done anything until they were married. Ludwig had nailed it, though. It had totally been Maddie's decision to wait. At least he should give Gilbert props for not trying to convince her to change her mind. Well, at least not more than once or twice.

"So you're not worried about the money, or that we won't be good parents? Just that you'll miss out on getting any action for a while?" she said with only half a joke in her tone.

"Are you?" he asked, pulling back a little to look at her. "Worried that we won't have enough money, or that we'll be bad parents?"

She looked away. "No," she lied.

"Oh, Birdie… You're going to be an awesome mom, no doubt," he sighed, going back to kissing her neck and shoulders. "And I'll make sure we have food on the table if I have to work three jobs."

"Really? Gil." Her eyes softened. "I love you."

"I love you too, Mrs. Beilshmidt." He never got tired of calling her that. Their lips met in an unhurried kiss that slowly became hungrier and more urgent as it stretched on.

Just as he was about to go for the buttons down the front of her sweater, her phone rang. Swearing, Gil let her up. "This had better be important," he growled.

"Hello?" Maddie said to the person at the other end of the line, ignoring both Gil's profanity and his obvious desire to get back to what they'd been doing before being interrupted. "Oh, hey, Al! Yes, it's great to hear from you too. I was just about to call you, actually. Really? I have news for you too! Hang on a second, Al, Gil's here, so let me put you on speaker so he can hear too."

She punched a button and Alfred's voice came blaring out of the phone. "Yo, brother-in-law-o'-mine!"

"Hi Alfred," Gil responded. "How's married life treating you?"

"Pretty good!" Alfred responded brightly. "Britt's around to smack me and call me git more often, but this way I get to—"

"Alfred!" came a voice from the other end—Alfred's new wife, Britt. They'd gotten married two months ago. Apparently the marriage fever had been contagious. Alfred had proposed to his girlfriend just a few months after Gilbert and Maddie had gotten engaged. "You'd better watch what you say."

"Sorry, babe," Alfred said. "But hey! We were calling to tell you guys some awesome news!"

"What is it?" Maddie asked.

"Well…" Alfred paused for dramatic effect. "You guys are gonna have a nephew!"

"Or niece," Britt snapped. She sighed. "Sorry he had to ruin the announcement like that. But the message is the same either way, I guess… I'm pregnant."

Maddie stared at the phone, eyes wide. "No way! So am I!"

"What?" demanded Alfred. "Are you for serious, sis? That German potato knocked you up?"

"Why does everyone say that like it's a bad thing?" groaned Gilbert. "We. Are. Married. When you're married you can have—" The sentence trailed off into unintelligibility as Maddie stuffed her hand over his mouth, glaring at him. "What?" he demanded, arching his neck to free his mouth, dodging this way and that to avoid her attempts to silence him again. "C'mon, Birdie, you're friggin pregnant. It's pretty obvious that we have sex!" Maddie squeaked and her face flooded with crimson when he said the word.

"Dude!" Alfred was gagging. "Quit talking about my sister like that! I don't even wanna think about… DUDE! Bad mental image!"

Maddie looked like she was about to die of mortification. "Britt! When did you find out?" she asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Just this morning," Britt replied. "But I'm probably about two months along or so by now. I think I'm getting a bump and everything."

"That's wonderful!" Maddie's hands instinctively went to her stomach, as if wishing for her own bump. Gilbert ducked his head to kiss her stomach comfortingly. "I can't believe we're both pregnant at the same time. This will be so perfect! The kids will have a playmate."

"Yeah, won't that be cute!" Alfred declared. "Yo, we totally gotta hang out so you and Britt can be all preggers together, sis!"

"Britt, please slap him," Maddie said, massaging her temples.

"My pleasure." Britt didn't really smack him, but she did _something_ that quieted him down. Gil wasn't sure he wanted to know what. "You'd better straighten up by the time I actually have the baby. I don't want my child raised by an insensitive jerk like you."

"Aww, I love you too, babe."

"Get a room," Gilbert grumbled. Luckily, his voice was too low to hear, or else that smart comment would've gotten him grounded from sleeping in their room. That was Maddie's favorite punishment for when he got into fights with her brother, because it was _very_ effective. For a whole month after the last time she'd done that, he'd been so civil to Alfred that he'd actually scared the guy with it.

"We should go shopping for clothes together," Maddie said. "I really should start emailing family and making a wish list for the shower…"

"Me too! We'll definitely have to get together soon to talk. We'll go out for tea and coffee, how does that sound?"

"I don't know, is caffeine bad for babies?"

"Oh, you're right, I hadn't thought about that…"

_And thus it begins_, Gilbert groaned to himself. He got the feeling that he wasn't going to be able to get her back to where they'd been a few minutes ago. Which was very disappointing.

o~O~o

Gilbert kicked the door to their apartment closed wearily. His days had gotten longer and longer since they got the news about the baby a few months ago. Maddie was trying to double up on classes so she could finish her school year a few months early, in time for the baby to be born, and that meant she had to cut down on hours at work. So Gil was picking up the slack, working odd extra shifts and filling in whenever he could. His boss knew he needed the money, so whenever he was shorthanded he gave Gil a call. Gil had worked the graveyard shift a couple nights recently, and he was ready to fall off his feet.

Maddie was curled up on the couch, asleep. The melted dregs of a bowl of strawberries and cream ice cream, the craving that had hit her hardest recently, nestled in the crook of her elbow, and she had a textbook open on her lap. She must have fallen asleep waiting for him.

Despite his exhaustion, Gil had to grin. Her sleeping face looked so serene and angelic. Brushing a hand through her golden blonde hair, he whispered, "I love you so much, Madeline Beilshmidt," even though she couldn't hear him. He gently tugged the ice cream bowl from her grip and set it and the textbook on the garage-sale-bought coffee table, then gathered her into his arms and carried her to their room.

He laid her out on the bed, then stripped down to his boxers and stretched out beside her, holding her close. His hand rested on the little bump growing on her stomach, low between her hips. His heart surged with love for her and the baby. Right here, like this, they were really a family.

Feeling a little silly, but at the same time like it was the most natural thing in the world to do, he said to it, "You have the best mommy in the world, you know? I just hope that Daddy can deserve her someday."

The baby didn't answer, of course. But he felt reassured by its presence all the same. Just the fact that it existed meant that she loved him, loved him enough to have a child with him and to love that child so much even though it wasn't even born yet.

"Goodnight," he told it as he sank into dreams.

o~O~o

Maddie talked to the baby all the time. When she was doing homework, when she was alone cleaning in the kitchen or the restroom at work, before Gil got home at night. It was like an imaginary friend—constantly by her side, with an ear for anything she wanted to say. Her love for it was impossible to understand, but so strong that it hurt sometimes. She never spoke to it in front of others, though, not even Gil. The things she told the baby were like a secret pact between them. All the hopes she had for it, she told it. She narrated her activities for it. She made up songs and stories for it. Whatever she loved, she told it about. Ice cream, Sundays, its father. It would be born knowing everything about Gil if she had anything to do with it.

Gil thought she didn't know that he talked to it too, but she heard sometimes when he talked to it before he fell asleep at night after coming home late. He talked to it about the future he hoped it would have, too, adding promises that he'd always watch over it and make sure it had everything it wanted. Often, he talked about Maddie too, saying things he'd never say to her face that made her insides tickle with butterflies. When he thought she was asleep, he told the baby that she was beautiful and smart and that he didn't deserve her. She never loved him more than when she heard him say things like that, his voice full of warmth and his eyes gazing with love down at the bump on her stomach where their baby was growing.

Britt and Alfred started coming by often. Maddie hadn't ever gotten along well with her prickly sister-in-law, but being pregnant just…created a bond between them. They were going through the same things at almost exactly the same time, although Britt was a little farther along. Together they sent their husbands running to the store at all hours for their cravings (strawberries and cream ice cream for Maddie, scones with blackberry jam for Britt), got violently sick in the mornings, and broke down crying at the simplest things. Having someone to go through all of that with who understood it was very liberating.

"Ugh," Britt complained, clutching her stomach. They were at Babies R Us, shopping for baby essentials like a crib and a car seat. Somehow they'd managed to get their husbands into the store, so they were stuck pushing the carts. "I'm so _huge_."

"Me too," Maddie said, putting a hand to her back. It hurt her sometimes now that she was getting far along in her pregnancy. She was five months now, and Britt was six. "Oh!"

"What's the matter?" asked Gilbert, leaping to her side automatically. "What's going on? Jeez, woman, you can't do this to me when you're pregnant, it scares the living crap outta me!"

Maddie ignored him, gazing down at her now-pronounced bump with awe. "I felt it… It moved," she gasped.

Gil's crimson eyes gaped. "It did?"

"Here, feel," she said, taking his hands and guiding them to her belly. "Here." She positioned his big bass-player's hands so he could feel the continued shifting motion she felt. "Can you feel it?"

"Yeah!" His eyes lit up. "Wow, he's a kicker, huh?"

"He?" she asked. They'd already decided that they weren't going to find out the baby's gender until it was born—they wanted to be surprised. Britt and Alfred already knew theirs was a boy; Al had been too impatient to wait nine months to find out.

He shrugged. "I think it'll be a boy."

"Really?" She laughed, eyes still locked on their hands covering her stomach. "It…_he's_ so… I love him so much."

"I do too." Not bothering to see who was looking, Gilbert kissed her, right there in the middle of the store. "Almost as much as I love you, Birdie."

Turning pink, she looked away from his exotic red eyes. "I love you too, Gil."

"Yo! Lemme feel!" Alfred said. "Dude, Gilbert, share!"

Gilbert glared at Alfred and looked pointedly at Britt. "Hey, Britt, would you like to feel?"

"You bet!" Britt replaced Gilbert's hands with hers. Her green gaze softened. "Oh, he's strong. You should be proud."

"Britt!" whined Alfred.

"Oh, did you want to feel for yourself?" Britt winked conspiratorially at Gilbert.

Alfred pouted. "Fine, be that way. Don't let me feel my own twin sister's baby kick. That's cool, whatevs."

"Here, Al." Maddie grabbed her brother's hand and brought it to her stomach. "There!"

"Cool!" He laughed. "Well, my kid's got a stronger kick, but yours is cool too!"

Gilbert leveled a blood-red glare at him. "You know yours is a month older, right?"

Even though she was irritated at Alfred for making such a moronic comment, Maddie broke in to stop them fighting. She hated it when they fought, and it tended to happen often. They were just too much alike, with their stubborn, cocky personalities. "Gil, look at that high chair there. Do you like that one?"

Her husband's eyes narrowed—he got a little irritated whenever she got involved in his arguments with other people—but he turned to look. "Oh, yeah, that one's awesome."

Britt snickered. "Men."

Maddie rolled her eyes helplessly, tucking herself under Gilbert's arm. "There's just no living with them. But I couldn't live without this one."

Only Gilbert would kiss someone in a store in a manner more befitting a bedroom, but that's exactly what he did. And Maddie hardly minded at all.

o~O~o

"You know I love this kid, but he's getting too big," Gilbert complained. "I'm gonna need spinal cord surgery if I keep having to lean over him to kiss you."

Maddie laughed weakly. "How do you think I feel? You're not the one carrying around an extra thirty pounds."

Gilbert didn't reply. He couldn't—he felt like his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. She _wasn't_ carrying an extra thirty pounds, and they both knew it. She was the same weight she'd been before getting pregnant, maybe even a little less. It was her first pregnancy, and her body just wasn't used to it. On top of that, she was slender and slight—her body had never really been built for children. For the first six months, everything had seemed to be going alright, but in the last two months things had started going downhill. Britt still had that healthy baby glow, but Maddie was starting to look sallow and wasted, and she was tired all the time. The doctor couldn't find anything wrong. The baby was perfectly healthy. She was just too small to bear children easily.

He pulled her down on the couch next to him. "C'mon, Birdie, the doctor said you have to stay off your feet."

Unwillingly, she sat. "I hate not being able to do anything," she sighed.

"I know." He pulled her over to lean on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I can't be around more to keep you company."

"No, you have to work," she said. "Besides, Britt comes over all the time to see me."

Speaking of time… Gil turned his wrist to get a glimpse of his watch and swore. "Ah, I gotta get going. I said I'd pick up an extra shift this morning. Britt'll be here soon, right?"

"Yeah." Maddie's eyes tightened suddenly. "See you after work."

He frowned. "You okay?"

"Fine, fine." She waved him off. "Go."

Gilbert couldn't concentrate the whole drive to the music shop, and when he got there he was distracted. Forcing himself to focus and answer a customer's question about a drum set, he managed to get Maddie and the baby to the back of his mind.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It made him jump, with his nerves all wound up like they were. "Hello?"

"Gil, Maddie's water just broke," came Britt's urgent voice. "Hello? Gil? Gil!"

He almost dropped the phone. "Oh _Gott_! Oh _Gott_, oh _Gott_, oh _Gott_oh_Gott_oh_Gott_… is she okay? Let me talk to her!"

"I'm driving her to the hospital now but you've got to meet us there, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be there! Just give her the freaking phone Britt!"

"No need to swear." He heard the phone change hands.

"Maddie?" He clutched the phone like it was life or death. "Maddie, can you hear me? I'm going to be there as soon as I can, so just hang on till then, okay?"

"It's okay, Gil, calm down," she chuckled humorlessly.

"But he's not due till next month!" he cried. "How can I calm down?"

"I'm sure these doctors have delivered premature babies before."

"Well none of those babies were mine!" A whimper of pain came through the phone. "Maddie?"

"I love you, Gil," she told him. "See you soon."

"Maddie don't hang—" The dial tone greeted him. He swore explosively and tried desperately not to crush the phone in his strong hand. "Jack!"

His boss looked at him from behind a wall of strings for guitars, basses, violins, violas, and cellos. "What's up?"

"My wife just went into labor," Gil said breathlessly.

"What're you still here for then?" Jack asked, cracking a grin at him. "Tell her I said break a leg."

A much-needed grin spread across Gilbert's face, and he rolled his eyes. "You're crazy, Jack." In three long strides he was out the door. "I'll make up the hours somehow!"

Jack's response followed him out the door. "Don't worry about it!"

Gil drove too fast down the highway, but luckily there weren't any cops around to notice him. He got enough honks and fingers directed at him, but he couldn't have cared less. Everything that was happening was background noise, and the on the forefront of his mind was Maddie. _Eight months. Is that enough?_ Gott, _let it be enough…_

He wasn't much of a praying sort of guy, but he was praying now. Half of him tried to rationalize, saying that women had babies every day, but the other half was totally freaking out. And that half was definitely louder than the rational one.

Somehow he found himself wandering through the maternity wing, trying to find Maddie's room. It took much too long. His phone rang while he was searching.

"Gil! Where are you?" demanded Britt. "She's already dilating!"

"What?" he cried. "I thought this was supposed to take a long time!"

"They induced her! Her water already broke so they had no choice. He could've suffocated in there if they hadn't."

"I can't find the room!" He swore loudly. "Hey!" That last was directed to a nurse. "Can you help me?" He told her Maddie's room number and got directions there. "Tell her I'm almost there, Britt."

"Hurry." Britt hung up.

Not a minute later Gilbert found the room and burst inside.

"Finally!" Britt cried. She was holding Maddie's hand. Maddie's face was streaked with tears and sweat, but when her eyes locked on his she smiled with only a hint of the strain she must have felt.

For a second they were the only two people in the room, in the whole world. Well, the only three. Their baby was so close to being born, so close to being there to breathe the same air, see the same sun, share their smiles and joy at seeing his face for the first time.

"Gil," Maddie sighed as he knelt beside her.

"I'm here, it's okay." He smoothed her hair back. Their hands found each other's, fitting into the familiar comfort of her hand in his. "Jack says to break a leg."

She laughed. "That man. He's—" A tremor that wracked her whole body shook her to silence, clenching her eyes shut.

That went on for another hour. It was agonizing. She tried and she tried, but the baby just wouldn't come. Every scream made Gilbert flinch violently. Her hand clenched his so hard that his fingers turned purple, but he couldn't even feel it. The doctors' faces were set grimly behind their surgical masks.

Finally someone said, "It's crowning!"

"You're almost there," he told her, squeezing her fingers. "You can do this."

She howled as she gave another push, then dissolved into panting and blinking unseeingly. "Gil…" she sighed.

"Shh, it's okay, you don't have to talk." The look in her eyes was terrifying. It was so empty, like…like she was dying.

Mustering her strength, she gave one last push. A doctor cried, "It's out!"

"You hear that, Birdie?" Gil said, chafing his hand over hers. He didn't even bother to look. The face of their child, the one he'd been so desperate to see, didn't matter. The only face he saw was hers, gray and drawn and terrible. "You did it! I'm so proud of you."

She blinked slowly. "I did it?"

"Yes, yes, you did." Gilbert didn't even look to see if it was true. His eyes were locked on her face. "Stay awake, Maddie. Don't you dare go to sleep."

"Tired…" Her eyes drifted shut. Her heart monitor skipped a beat, then resumed its normal rhythm. Then skipped again. Then a long silence. Then it came back. And skipped.

"No, no, no!" Gilbert dropped her hand and grabbed her face, rubbing his thumbs roughly along her cheekbones. "Madeline Williams Beilshmidt you are _not_ allowed to die on me! You'd better open your eyes!"

She didn't.

The heart monitor was silent again. Then picked back up unsteadily.

"_Gott_, Birdie!" Gilbert was crying. "Stop that! Wake up now!"

Behind him, Britt choked back a sob. The doctors were a flurry of lab coats and scrubs. He ignored them all.

"I love you! You can't die!" he howled. "Remember? You promised me! When I asked you to marry me I asked if you'd be mine forever and you said yes! You've never broken a promise in your life, you told me so! Don't you dare start now!"

The faltering heart meter was killing him with its merciless moments of silence. "Wake up," he begged weakly, gathering her cold hands into his and pressing her knuckles to his eyes. "Maddie… Please wake up…" He didn't know what he'd do if those gorgeous eyes of hers never opened again. How could he go on without his angel, his Birdie, his wife, the love of his life?

Her hand in his twitched.

His head snapped up fast enough to give him whiplash. The heart monitor started to beat out a natural rhythm again as her incredible blue eyes opened sleepily.

"Oh thank God," Britt gasped. Gilbert was crying too hard to speak, but he kissed her fingers repeatedly, so grateful that she was awake that his heart felt like it was about to burst.

"Gilbert? The baby… Is…"

"He's fine," the doctor said. He had the mewling infant wrapped in a hospital blanket. "You did very well, Mrs. Beilshmidt."

"Can I…" Maddie opened her arms for the baby. The doctor placed him inside the circle of her arms gently.

Gilbert craned his neck to peer over her shoulder at the baby's tiny face. He was so small, red with crying and blinking awkwardly into the first light he'd ever seen. He was so perfect. "I toldja it would be a boy."

She chuckled. "Yes, you did, Gil."

"So we decided on Matthew, right?"

"Right." Maddie brushed a kiss across their son's forehead. "He's beautiful."

"Yeah… And so tiny…" Gil stroked a long finger across Matthew's cheek. "He looks like you."

"Really? I was going to say that he looks like you."

"We can share," he suggested. "Mom."

"Dad." She snickered and kissed him. "I'm so happy."

"Me too. You really had me worried there for a minute though."

She let out a weak laugh. "I was scared too."

"If we ever have another kid, promise me you won't get so close to meeting Jesus, okay? I'm not ready to let you go yet."

"Promise." Her smile was tenuous but sincere. "Now, how about I let you hold your son?"

_My son_. Gilbert stared in awe down at the baby, this little human being that he had helped to create. "Welcome to the world, little guy," he cooed, trying to swallow back a lump in his throat. "I'm so happy to see you. We've been expecting you for a long time. Mommy and I love you, Matthew. We love you so much."

o~O~o

"_Mom_!" Matthew cried. "Arthur hit me!"

Maddie put her fists on her hips and stared at her two-year-old son. "Matthew Beilshmidt. Were you stealing your cousin's ice cream again? Was that why he hit you?"

Matthew's pale blue eyes searched the floor as he scuffed his foot against the tile, allowing a lock of platinum-blonde hair to fall over his eyes. "Maybe…"

"Don't worry, I got this," Gilbert called, reaching into the freezer and scooping out another bowl of ice cream for his nephew. "Artie! Come get some more ice cream!"

"Yay!" A dirty-blond-haired green-eyed boy just an inch or two shorter than Matthew came running into the kitchen. He had massive eyebrows and bounced around with just as much energy as his dad. "Ice cream!" In his rush to get to the treat, he fell on his face, but then he just popped right back up to retrieve the ice cream, his nose red from its painful encounter with the floor.

Gilbert handed the boy the ice cream and ruffled his hair. "Your mom would kill us."

"Yes she would," came a none-too-happy voice from the door. "It's bad enough that he eats all that junk at home."

"Busted," groaned Gil. "Come in guys."

Three people walked in—Britt, Alfred, and Ludwig.

"Dude, ice cream? Can I have some?" cried Alfred.

"Sure!" Gilbert handed him the carton. "Knock yourself out."

"Sweetness!" Alfred found a spoon and dug in.

Britt rolled her eyes. "And you wonder where Arthur got his sweet tooth."

"Yeah, that's weird, right?"

Ludwig was watching Matthew and Arthur play. Britt kept an eye on them too. Once again she had the healthy glow of pregnancy—she and Alfred were about to have their second child. As for Gilbert and Maddie, they'd been more careful since their scare with Matthew. The doctor said a second pregnancy would likely have far less risk involved, but they were at least going to wait before they chanced it again.

"So Ludwig!" Gilbert said, slinging an arm around his brother's shoulders. "What's this I hear about you and a prom? And an Italian?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Ludwig turned scarlet. "Mom has such a big mouth," he muttered.

"I gotta know these things! I'm your big brother!"

Ludwig ignored him and knelt down to help Matthew and Arthur arrange their block toy soldiers into orderly ranks. Leave it to Ludwig to be OCD with baby toys.

Gilbert felt Maddie's hand slide into his, and he brought it to his mouth to kiss it. She was so amazing. Sure, she was a little worse for wear now, what with the stretch marks and the lilac circles that were becoming a fixture under her eyes, from the stress of balancing motherhood with finishing up her degree, but she was still beautiful to him. And always would be. Those stretch marks and circles were testaments to their life together, and Gilbert knew he'd never trade that for anything, and she wouldn't either.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yay for angsty near-death moments! :D I'm such a bad person.<strong>

**Hope you enjoyed it, Ariana-tan! Everybody please remember to leave me requests and truth/dares!**


	9. Thanks to Saint Rita

**AN: Okay. This person is like...me. Except I'm Protestant, not Catholic. So I kind of just wrote what I would do if a certain hot German became my deskmate in Geometry. Oh, and by the way, Saint Rita is the patron saint of the lonely and Hayden Christiansen played Anikin in the new Star Wars trilogy. He's super smexy x3 Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, Vulcanblood!**

**Prompt: Ooooh! Do a Germany/OC.**

**Oc: Nerdy and bookish, plays the viola in orchestra (its kind of like a violin but bigger) Blue eyes, and she loves Star Trek and Star Wars. She's also Catholic. Germany and the Oc (you could call her... Alannah Sörenson) meet at highschool (she's a freshman, and he's a sophomore) it's the first week of school and she's in his math class (cuz she's a nerd) maybe she tutors him? (From Vulcanblood [your name is cool :D])**

* * *

><p>The bell for first period rang, and Alannah Sörenson moaned. Late to class. She hated it when her bus ran late and, even running to first period, she still couldn't always outrun the bell. Irritably, she pushed her glasses up her nose—they'd bounced out of place as she ran, and now she had to look cross-eyed down her nose to see.<p>

Figuring it was too late now to bother running anymore—her class was half the length of the main hallway away—Alannah slowed to a walk, swiping some of her dark golden hair behind her ear and hefting her viola case. It was part of the reason she was late sometimes, running to store it in the orchestra room before class. Today she hadn't even had time to do that, so the clunky instrument case was going to be her companion for today until fourth period orchestra.

To be honest, Alannah wasn't all that upset. First period was this year's trial by fire. Being late grated on her goody-two-shoes nature, but missing first period advanced Geometry was never a bad thing. Everyone in that class besides her was a sophomore, and despite their ages she seemed to be the smartest out of all of them. Between that, her viola (which was NOT the same thing as a violin, as she vehemently lectured to anyone who dared to make that assumption), and the Star Wars and Trekkie memorabilia that fountained out of her backpack every time she opened it, she'd become a social outcast in that class. So she sat by herself in the back of the room and doodled music notes and Darth Vader and Spock when she finished her work before everyone else.

She sat outside of the room for a second after she reached it, enjoying her last few minutes of freedom from a classroom and blinking away the last vestiges of sleep from her stormy blue eyes. Then she opened the door and stepped inside, shrinking smaller as if the teacher might not notice her enter.

Of course, he did. Mr. Powell's eyes snapped over to fasten on her. "Ms. Sörenson. How nice of you to join us."

"I'm sorry," she responded. "My bus ran late, and I…"

He sighed. "I know, I know. Please, sit down. You have a new desk partner, but you'd know that if you were here on time."

Alannah bit down hard on her lip to keep back the complaint that he was being unfair. Hopefully her expression didn't look petulant—Mr. Powell hated petulance. "Yes, sir."

The room was full of tables meant to seat two, but Alannah had always had hers to herself since there was an odd number of people in the class. Now her usual table was occupied by a boy she'd never seen before.

He had pale blond hair viciously slicked back, as if he viciously punished every that hair dared to fall out of place. Pale skin without a blemish. Electric blue eyes that made her feel like she was two feet tall and he loomed like a giant. He exuded strength, and Alannah had no doubt he had some serious muscles lurking under that Iron Cross T-shirt. His features were hard and square. All in all, he was a bluff mountain face, immobile and timeless, obstinately staring into the face of the rain and the wind without changing.

He was probably the most intimidating high schooler in existence. He was…_gorgeous_. Alannah's heart skipped a beat or two.

The boy looked up and nodded her direction uncomfortably. Steeling herself, Alannah took her seat beside him.

"Hello," she said quietly, so as not to disturb Mr. Powell's teaching. "My name's Alannah, what's yours?"

"Ludwig," he said. He had a deep voice, and he spoke with a German accent. "Ludwig Beilshmidt."

_Um._ Alannah was a little stung by his dismissive tone. He was paying close attention to the teacher, and seemed like he was hoping she wouldn't respond and make him engage in a conversation. But she did anyway, half because she was offended, and half because it would be too awkward to end the conversation there. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

And that was the end of that.

It was a good thing that Alannah was a nerd and already good at math, because she couldn't focus with Ludwig right there next to her, so close that she could smell his foreign cologne—which, by the way, was heavenly. By the end of class she had no recollection of anything Mr. Powell had taught, but she had the length of Ludwig's strong arm and his square hand taking notes memorized. That was all she could see from the corner of her eye, and as much as she was dying to sneak peeks at him, he had acted like a jerk and she didn't want him to think she was as interested as she was.

When class let out Alannah got to her feet slowly, hoping Ludwig might say something but not really believing he would.

She was pretty surprised when he actually did address her. "I'm sorry for my rudeness earlier," he said, blushing slightly and keeping his eyes on packing up his backpack. "I just… Math isn't my strongest subject, and I want to do well here."

_Sweet Jesus,_ she thought to herself. _Thank you, Saint Rita!_ Saint Rita was the patron saint of loneliness, and she'd obviously sent Alannah a gorgeous German god to alleviate her solitude. "You know, I tutor sometimes. I could help you out, if you want me to."

Ludwig hesitated. "I don't know… Aren't you a freshman?"

_Ouch._ The F word. Abruptly her heart leaped—how did he know? Did he care? Had he asked? "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"I heard some of the others talking," he said, his blush deepening. "When you were tardy, they kept muttering about the fish being late."

"Oh. Yeah." Darn. He hadn't asked.

An awkward silence spread between them. Ludwig hefted his backpack on his shoulder and cleared his throat. "Well, I appreciate the offer, but I think I'll try to handle things myself."

"Yeah, I understand." _Shoot. Saint Rita, what is this?_ she demanded internally.

She watched him leave, wondering how she could fall so hard for such a cold person so quickly. It just seemed impossible, but somehow…she had.

o~O~o

Unfortunately, Alannah didn't have any other sophomore classes, and Ludwig wasn't in any of her elective classes either. She'd held out hope all day, but in vain.

She began to look forward to first period. She bounced out of bed each day, wide awake, and said hello to her poster of Hayden Christensen. "Sorry for cheating on you, my love," she told him. "But you haven't seen Ludwig. He's so dreamy!"

And he didn't notice her in the least, unfortunately. He became a single-minded Geometry machine as soon Mr. Powell started talking. Sometimes Alannah could get him to talk to her before class started. She learned that he was from Berlin and had a brother in his twenties who owned a music shop there. Ludwig wished he could have stayed in Germany with his older brother, but his parents wouldn't hear of it. When his father had gotten a promotion, the family had packed up and moved to America, leaving Gilbert behind. They would have taken Gilbert too, Ludwig said, if he hadn't thrown a nuclear-warfare-sized tantrum when they suggested it. In school, he was in ROTC, metalshop, and all advanced classes. From what she could tell, he seemed pretty lonely and was stubbornly refusing to admit it.

Their short conversations made Alannah's day. Everything she learned about him was another crack in his impregnable exterior, another path she could follow to his heart. Even though he looked like the type to wring someone's neck on the slightest provocation, she knew that under all that, he was a really kind person. She was determined that she would be the one to finally reach past his hardness and unearth the man he was too mistrustful or too afraid to show anyone but those closest to him.

Unfortunately, the little she managed to get out of him stopped abruptly at exactly seven thirty. After the bell rang he transported a world away from her, into the land of pi and quadratics and x and square roots.

And then they took their first test since Ludwig transferred to their school.

Apparently, navigating the land of geometry, which came so easily to Alannah, was not Ludwig's strong suit. He swore and crumpled up his test when it landed on his desk, glancing at Alannah to see if she'd caught a glimpse of the grade. She had. The test had a big red sixty-five written across the top.

Her lips twisted sympathetically. "That test was killer, huh?"

"What did you get?" he asked reproachfully. His electric blue eyes were disappointed—he already knew her grade would be better than his.

Reluctantly, she showed him. Her test bore a proud ninety-seven and a smiley-face sticker, which Mr. Powell awarded to students who got ninety-fives or better on their tests.

Ludwig's face fell and he turned away from her. "I knew it."

"Oh, come on, a sixty-five isn't that bad!" she protested, trying to cheer him up. "You can bring that up no sweat!"

He shook his head mournfully. "A sixty-five major grade? It will take me forever to get that up to an A."

"You know, the offer of tutoring still stands," Alannah said slowly, praying to God and every saint she could name that he'd agree.

Ludwig hesitated.

o~O~o

Alannah thought she might faint when Ludwig stepped into her room.

She'd cleaned it meticulously yesterday in preparation for him coming over for tutoring, but she couldn't completely erase all the things she might find embarrassing. The sheet music scattered all over the room, the Star Wars and Star Trek posters (Hayden Christensen's poster had the place of honor on the back of her door), a crucifix over her doorway. Ludwig paused at her door to take it all in.

"Um… Yeah, this is it," she said self-consciously.

"Nice," he said lamely.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Alannah gestured at a chair at her desk. "Why don't you sit down?"

He did, sitting his bag on the floor beside him. "Thanks for this," he said sheepishly, avoiding her eyes as she sat down on the bed, which was right next to the desk.

"It's no problem, Ludwig," she replied with a laugh. "Lighten up!"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I can't…" He coughed awkwardly. "I can't say I've ever been in a girl's room before, actually," he said with a nervous chuckle.

Alannah had to fight to keep a grin off her face. It was nice to see he thought of her like a girl and not just like a classmate. Plus, seeing the unflappable Ludwig uncomfortable was sort of hilarious. "It's okay, it's just studying!" _Please let it end up as not just studying…_

Ludwig nodded and grinned weakly. "Let's study then."

They threw themselves into Geometryland. Ludwig had a lot of questions, and luckily Alannah knew all the answers. She thought she might have died of embarrassment if she couldn't explain something to him.

"Is this graph correct?" he asked, showing his notebook to her.

"Let me see," she said, taking the spiral from him. His fingers brushed hers, and a jolt traveled up her arm.

"Ah…" Ludwig withdrew his hand quickly, but his electric blue eyes were locked on hers. "I'm sorry."

"No… It's fine…" Her voice was faint. The air was full of electricity passing between the two of them—or maybe it was just Alannah. Either way, she felt like her insides were twisting into knots. The smell of his cologne was pervading her room. She'd never be able to look at that desk the same way again.

Coughing nervously, Ludwig looked away, and the charge between them evaporated. Alannah forced her eyes back down to the graph.

"Looks good," she told him, and handed the notebook back. "You're doing really well. You're totally going to ace the retest!"

"Thanks to you." Suddenly the charged moment was back as their eyes met again.

Alannah almost had a heart attack when his finger reached up, almost involuntarily, to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers, rough from shop class and handling a rifle in ROTC but still so gentle, lingered against her cheek.

When he realized what he was doing Ludwig turned explosively red and jerked his hand back as if burned. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…" He shoved the notebook into his backpack and shouldered it. "I'll go now."

"Ludwig? Hey, wait!" She managed to shake off her _Ludwig-touched-me!_ paralysis and darted ahead of him. She slammed the door to her room shut, pressing her back to it to keep him from escaping. "We said an hour, and I'm not letting you out of here until you've done all your work!"

He looked at her with a confused expression. "But… I just… Don't you _want_ me to go? I had no right to touch you without your permission. You should want me to go."

"Why in the world would I want that?" Half without her permission, her hands, the fingers long from years of handling a viola, brushed across his still-flaming cheeks, across the brows above his wide, shocked blue eyes.

"Alannah…" Her name sounded so perfect in his German accent.

Her cheeks burned, but she kept her eyes stubbornly locked on his as she admitted, "I like you, Ludwig. A lot."

"You do?" He looked surprised.

"Yeah." Now she averted her eyes. "What do you think about that?"

"I think…" He hesitated, and reached for her.

When he tilted her chin up to kiss her, the breath stilled in her lungs. She couldn't even let the need for oxygen interrupt this, his kiss. His glorious kiss with her hands breaking apart the gel in his hair and his on the door on either side of her, trapping her there while his hesitant, sweet kisses grew slower and deeper and longer…

They broke apart when Alannah was about to explode for want of air. Ludwig's strong arms encircled her, and it was heaven.

"I…" Ludwig blushed. Alannah kissed his cheek, feeling the heat of his flush under her lips.

"If you want, we can tell everyone we were just studying. I know I'm just a freshman," she said with a cheeky grin. "Not cool enough to date a sophomore."

"Of course you are," he argued despite a deep blush, burying his face in her hair. His words were muffled by her hair, but they still sent warmth gushing through her. "You're perfect."

He kissed her again.

_Yes. Perfect_.

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><p><strong>AN: Oh my. Way to be all forward, Ludwig :P I love it when he just can't help himself. He's so darn cute!<strong>

**Be sure to leave me reviews, prompts, and truths/dares!**


	10. The Fake Boyfriend

**AN: So... Iggy's kind of a man-whore in this chapter. A bisexual man-whore. I know some England fangirls might kill me, but I already got my WW1-style trench set up to hide from those people, so I will live to write another day! Please don't forget to request, and leave me truths and dares for the Truth or Dare chapter.**

**Oh, and a few shoutouts before we get started. Vulcanblood, do whatever you like with the previous chapter! It was your idea, so feel free to build on it if you want to. And to CelticGirl7, from whom the request came this time around, thanks for requesting twice! I think people feel like if they request once, they have to stop-that's not the case at all. I'll be happy to write any number of prompts for everyone! ^^**

**Prompt: During a world meeting dinner party, Japan reflects back on the times he had with (Fem!)America before he finds himself dancing with said nation. With hints of fem!ItalyxGermany and fem!CanadaxPrussia. (from CelticGirl7)**

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><p>The world changed. Nothing ever stayed the same forever, and Japan knew this better than anybody. He himself was living proof of that.<p>

He'd shut himself up for many years, too wound up in the turmoil inside himself, that he'd missed Europe's transition from a hopelessly backward farming continent to the driving force behind world interactions. Luckily, he'd had a much easier time catching up than Russia or China did. Soon he'd been able to rival Europe's strength, and that had made him too brave.

He knew now that what he had done was wrong. It had been selfish and overly ambitious of him to try and create a land empire like Britain's. China and Russia had a right to their land—if he had wanted to become an empire, he should have done so before they asserted their ownership so deeply. He'd been ruthless, and cruel, and he'd become something he'd never wanted to be in his pursuit of power.

And it had taken some very drastic action from a certain spunky girl to make him realize it.

America might have been a girl, but she was tougher than anyone he knew. She'd gotten her independence from Britain before any of his other colonies, and she'd been able to keep up with West Europe when the whole rest of the world was falling behind. Not to mention that she controlled one of the largest nations in the world. She was strong enough to compete with any male nation, despite the fact that she was a girl.

And despite the fact that she was a girl, she'd found the ultimate weapon, and she had not been afraid to use it. On Japan.

He still had scars from that. It was something he didn't like to think about, but he had them, festering wounds that refused to heal, just like the land upon which America had dropped her atomic bombs. The weapon to end all weapons, and he had been the one to suffer their devastation.

Though America had hurt him like that, Japan didn't blame her. Even she had not known the extent of the damage it would cause, and he supposed that, if anything, he had been lucky to escape with only two bombings. If China had developed nuclear weapons first… Well, Japan might be sunk into a radioactive sea right now.

Lost in thought, Japan idly observed the party swirling around him, picking at the sleeve of his Western-style suit coat. Everyone was in formal attire tonight, for the annual dinner party. It was a rare occasion when the countries all gathered together like this for non-political reasons. Of course, America threw parties almost every other weekend, but this was one of the few times when the party was truly formal—and would not result in America's hired help carting out half the world after the nations passed out drunk on her floor.

He scanned the room, tuning out his companions. Germany and Italy, who had recently started going out—at last; _everyone_ had seen it coming but Germany—were chatting with Prussia and his girlfriend, Canada, next to him, but he hardly noticed. Germany was in a stark black suit with a black dress shirt and a teal tie that matched Italy's dress. Japan had helped her pick it out; his fashion sense was rather good, what with all the cosplaying his citizens did, and he knew what Germany liked. Her dress went to her knees and was tied with a big bow in the back. It looked girlish and cute, fit for a child—at least until you noticed the neckline, plunging low between her breasts, that had made Germany nearly swallow his tongue when he first saw her. Her auburn hair was swept into an elegant twist at her neck, but a few strands escaped to lie softly against her neck. Germany blushed every time he looked at her, but she was completely oblivious.

Prussia and Canada matched too—Prussia wore a lavender dress shirt under his black vest (he had discarded his coat somewhere along the line) with a black tie, and Canada wore a sparkling, flowing floor-length dress in the same color. It was sleeveless, but the collar went right up to her chin, broken only by a diamond-shaped cutout between her breasts. Her hair, usually tied back, fell to her waist in golden waves. She looked as embarrassed by her outfit as Germany was by Italy's. From what Japan knew about Canada, he would have bet his full collection of Fullmetal Alchemist that America had selected the outfit for her twin; at least Prussia was enjoying it. He couldn't keep his hands off her, whether it was an arm around her waist or brushing her hair away from her blushing face or stealing a kiss.

Japan sighed. Sometimes he rather wished he had a companion to bring to these functions like the others. Some brought their fellow nations, and others regular citizens they'd taken a fancy to, but nearly everyone had a date. Except Japan.

And, surprisingly, America. She looked lovely tonight, as always, in a daring deep blue dress dotted with silver sparkles, like the stars on her flag. The dress fell to the floor like Canada's and had the same neckline, but hers boasted a slit in the leg that bared her leg almost all the way up her thigh whenever she moved, and she filled out the dress better than Canada did since she was curvier than her sister. Tall navy heels added inches to her height, and her dirty-blonde hair was swept back from her face with silver pins set with crystals.

Usually at these parties, America had a burly football player on her arm, or at the very least, England. But tonight England and America were shooting each other death glares across the hall, and there was a very conspicuous lack of football players. The pair of countries must have gotten into a fight just before the party, too soon for America to find another date.

Japan blinked when he realized the blonde nation was making her way across the hall towards him. Trying hard not to look at the leg exposed by her dress, Japan averted his eyes and blushed.

"Yo, Japan!" she called, planting herself firmly in front of him. She was a walking contradiction—she wanted to roughhouse with the boys and be in the thick of every war and she demanded attention as much as any arrogant male, but she was so proud of her femininity in odd ways. The slit in her skirt, for example. And how she looked him in the eye challengingly and said, "We're gonna dance, okay? C'mon, don't be a party pooper!"

"Ah, America-chan, I'd prefer—" But Japan had very little say in the matter. Before he knew it, he found himself holding America, her leading as they waltzed. He blushed, trying to release her, but her grip on his hand was iron.

She grinned widely at him with a simpering look on her face, but the words she hissed at him didn't match her face at all. "Just dance with me, okay? I'm trying to piss Iggy off."

"Why would you do that?" The dance called for a swirl, and as Japan swung America around—or perhaps _she_ swung _him_, it was hard to tell—he caught a glimpse of England's face. It was murderous. Japan was suddenly afraid for his life. _Why did America-chan have to involve me in a fight between her and England-san?_ he moaned internally. _England-san will have my head, alliance or no alliance!_

"He's just being stupid," America sighed. She glowered over Japan's shoulder at her tousled-haired ex-boyfriend. "He… He was spending the night at France's all the time. And I think there was more to that than the two of them running late on deadlines." She shrugged, trying to pretend she wasn't upset. But Japan was very adept at sensing moods, and the betrayal she felt was clear in her eyes.

"I am very sorry, America-chan," he said truthfully. Seeing her be hurt…it was highly unpleasant.

"No sweat!" she said cheerfully. "No point in dating him if he swings that way, huh?"

"I suppose…" Japan felt embarrassed. Everyone was aware of England's on-again, off-again relationships with both America and France, but he usually wasn't stupid enough to experiment with both at once. And it was obvious that England wasn't a completely straight hitter, what with the way he knitted and gave flowers to other men and all. She had to be just putting on a brave face.

Then the dance became more complicated, and Japan had to focus on his footwork rather than America. That was a relief. He hated becoming involved in the dramas the rest of the world seemed so enamored of.

Unfortunately, being associated with America inevitably brought drama.

"Hey!" she cried, almost stepping on his toes in her excitement. "I just had a wicked awesome idea but you're gonna have to help me with it, okay? I know you've got my back."

"If I can be of service, I will do my best," Japan stammered. Inside he was already lamenting the worldwide fiasco his ally might cause with her antics, but since she _was_ his ally, he swallowed his misgivings and forced himself to look interested.

"Then from this moment on you are my new boyfriend!" she cried, loudly enough that the whole room could hear.

The whole room went silent, staring, the whole world gaping in wordless shock at the reserved Eastern man holding the boisterous Western girl in what certainly _looked_ like proof of that statement. A few people snickered, namely France, Prussia, and China, but most looked like they couldn't believe the unlikely pairing had actually happened.

Japan wanted the floor to suddenly grow a hungry mouth and consume him. The heat suffusing his face was almost painful.

America smiled at him brightly, completely ignoring the dropped jaws and disbelieving mutters. And then she kissed him.

It seemed impossible that his face could get any redder, but it did. America's hands framing his face felt like ice by comparison, and they certainly gripped him in place hard enough to be. His feeble struggles were in vain—he might be an industrial power, but America far outstripped him in physical might, and that knowledge made his attempts at escape halfhearted from the outset. He knew it was a losing battle. What America wanted, America got—whether it was a democratic Europe or a kiss.

So, unwillingly, he gave it. He was still not comfortable with touch like Westerners, but he _had_ promised America to do his best. Whatever she was up to.

So he kissed her back, letting her experienced lips guide his, trying to ignore the eyes of the world on them.

"Thanks," America whispered to him, her mouth forming the word against his. "It's to make Iggy jealous."

Ah. That made much more sense. But somewhere inside, Japan was just the tiniest bit…disappointed. She wasn't kissing him, not really. She was trying to get a rise out of the man she obviously still had feelings for.

After that, of course, it was impossible to just drop the ruse—so Japan spent the rest of the night escorting America about the party, dancing, eating, accepting still-shaken congratulations on their relationship, and kissing America back whenever she stole a kiss unexpectedly. Which, if he was honest, began to bother him less and less as the night wore on. He found himself almost…_eager_ to meet her lips when she turned towards him expectantly with a gleam in her big blue eyes. That worried him. He didn't want to become a depraved animal like France, but he was enjoying sharing kisses with America too much for comfort. Which might not have been so bad, except he knew that the kisses didn't mean a thing.

At least, they were working like America had intended. England shot death glares at them despite his hand jammed defiantly into France's, and even as France whispered to him and nibbled on his ear he was gazing beyond his current lover towards the one who'd, apparently, moved on very quickly.

Finally, England dropped France's hand and stormed away from the party, growling to himself under his breath. Everyone watched him go, none surprised in the least—not even France. France didn't even follow his aggravated lover to "help him relieve his sexual tensions"—the blond man stayed right where he was and promptly began flirting with Seychelles.

Japan relaxed. "He is gone."

"Yeah." For some reason, America's voice sounded a little small all of a sudden, and she didn't let go of Japan's arm. On the contrary—her grip might have even tightened. "Hey, let's go out in the garden, okay?"

"_Hai_…" Slightly confused but compliant as ever, Japan allowed his companion to lead him out the French doors to the stately, lush green garden. It was dark and cool outside, the star-spangled blanket of the night settled heavily over the world, and the lights and sounds of the party faded quickly as the pair walked arm-in-arm along the gravel pathway.

_Why has she not let go of my arm?_ Japan wondered. _The game is over… She's succeeded in making England jealous, and there's no one around to see. Why does she keep pretending?_

The normally spunky nation was unnaturally subdued on his arm. After a moment, she said, "Can we stop? These heels are killer."

"Of course." Japan led her over to a bench in between two hedges blossoming with fragrant golden flowers as wide as his hand. "I apologize."

"It's not your fault, I was the one who wanted to take a walk," she laughed, sliding the heels off her feet and massaging them. "Ouch."

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked awkwardly.

"Nah, I just need a minute."

"I see." Japan gazed off into the distance, at the stars glittering down at them from above like a smile flashing in the heavens.

"Hey Japan?"

"Yes?"

As he turned toward America to look at her, he saw a look in her eye that he'd become very familiar with over the course of the night, just one millisecond before she kissed him.

This kiss was different than the ones they'd shared at the party. This kiss was less ardent and passionate—instead, in this one he could taste a vulnerability he had never seen in America before. This kiss, the one they shared alone, made her shy and hesitant. Why? She'd had no problem kissing him hard enough to curl his toes in front of others, but alone she was suddenly as meek as a schoolgirl.

Because… Could it be because this one was…_real_?

All he knew was that he wanted it to be. How desperately he wanted it to be real.

He'd loved America from afar for a while now. But she'd always been with England, or one of the other Allies, or one of her own citizens. Shy little Japan was just her ally, just her trading partner. That surprise kiss she'd sprung upon him at the party had nearly made him faint. He'd dreamed of kissing her for so long, dreams he was embarrassed to dream because he was so sure they could never become real.

But if this was real…

He kissed her back just as hesitantly, just as haltingly. Their mouths met, and the kiss bloomed like a flower between them until it was impossible to doubt that both of them really meant it. It was a whole world opening in the space between their bodies, a future neither had foreseen in the gasping breaths they stole from off each other's lips.

After a small eternity of heaven on Earth, America panted, dislodging Japan's mouth from hers, and lowered her head to lean her forehead on his shoulder, gripping his arm for support. "For somebody who spent half their life as a celibate samurai, you sure know to kiss," she gasped.

"_Arigato_," he said, hiding his blush in her shoulder. "You too, I suppose? Without the samurai part…"

She laughed breathlessly and kissed his neck. "So, this boyfriend thing… What do you say we make it permanent?"

The flush on his cheeks was hot against her shoulder. "Yes… That would be good…"

The flowers curled their petals up as the last light of day faded away, but to Japan and America it seemed like they were giving the new lovers a bit of privacy as they sat there, kissing in the garden until the lights of the party went out and they were alone with the smiling stars.

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><p><strong>AN: ^^ Japan is so ADORABLE with his Japaneseyness. And America is STILL so heroic, even fem!ified (which I've never actually attempted before, so tell me how it worked out!). Review and request!<strong>


	11. Forbidden Fruit

**AN: Spamano, lovely Spamano~ This has to be one of my favorite pairings ever. And just as a fair warning, my inner angst monster got ahold of this one, so don't like, don't read. But if you do read, review! *crosses fingers hoping Tilletorpedo is into angst ^^'***

**Prompt: I was wondering if you could do something in human!AU with mafia!Romanoxfem!Spain? Just a short drabble is fine, something sweet (From tillietorpedo91)**

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><p>She was a distraction.<p>

Lovino couldn't afford distractions. He was neck-deep in a world where distractions got you killed. He told himself that every time she crossed his mind.

And yet…

Maria. Even her name was perfect, rolling off his tongue, tasting like honey in his mouth. Sometimes he whispered her name to himself in the dark as he tried to fall asleep, promising it would be the last time. It never was.

Everything about her was a little miracle.

Her beautiful chestnut curls—he could imagine that they would feel very soft between his fingers—_stop thinking like that_.

Deep emerald eyes that he could spend forever drowning in—_no!_

Lips that he fantasized about covering with his own—_stop it!_

And, miracle of miracles, she loved him. Despite all his anger and bitterness and the blood on his hands, she loved him.

He had ceased to believe in God and miracles a long time ago—after he made his first kill protecting his brothers—but she brought it all back. What else could she be but an angel? Or a demon, sent to tempt him.

That made him all the more desperate to hold onto her. Angels had to return to heaven, and demons… Well, if she was a demon, damn him. That would be better than heaven without her.

o~O~o

"Lovino, you're hurt again." Maria didn't judge him—she never did. Every time he showed up bleeding on her porch at two in the morning, she took him inside and fixed him. She healed his brokenness no matter how he'd become broken—whether it was a bullet wound or a cut or a heart that was too cold to love.

She'd taught him how to love again without meaning to, just by loving him. Just by being all that she was, she had mended a heart he had thought beyond repair. She was bright enough to illuminate him down to the darkest recesses if his soul—kind enough to see past the fact that he was a killer and a criminal—and honest, so honest she'd been able to just come out and say "I love you" as if it would not change his world forever.

As if he would ever be able to say it back.

A heart that could feel, could feel hurt as easily as love. And Lovino was scared. He could shoot a man and feel only slight remorse, but he could not let somebody use Maria to hurt him. He had enemies, and his enemies were even harder than he was. They would kill her if they knew he loved her.

And a world without his angel… He couldn't even bear to think about it.

She wrapped his wounded shoulder in pale white bandages. She was lovely by moonlight, but he couldn't think that. He couldn't hurt her and himself by loving her.

After she finished with the bandage, Maria smoothed the pale white gauze and pressed a soft kiss to the wound. "To make it better," she said with a smile brighter than the stars.

_I love you._ How he wanted to say it. But he never could, and it would be a weight on his heart forever.

o~O~o

There was no going back anymore.

Lovino kissed Maria hard, furious with himself for doing so, but he had to. She was a magnet. A sun, and he was the planet drawn inexorably into her orbit.

She kissed him back. The blackness hid them, and to the night they were any other young couple in love. No danger in darkness. The twilight was their safety, but now there was no safety anymore. Not now that he had allowed himself the unspeakable, a taste of the forbidden fruit that could not be erased. He had broken every rule to finally taste the ultimate taboo, and now he was not strong enough to resist anymore.

"But Lovino…" Maria broke away for air. It was the most glorious sound he had ever heard. Her panting his name, gasping for the breath he had snatched from her lungs—shivers crawled up his spine. "I thought you didn't care for me…like this…"

He had her backed up against the brick wall of an obscure alley. Hardly the place for a first kiss, but with Maria any place became paradise. "I do. I tried not to… But I couldn't help myself…" He buried his face in her shoulder and said it. He had already had a bite of the forbidden fruit—he was past the point of no return now. He might as well enjoy it. "I love you."

"Lovino…" His own name was music to his ears. "You know I love you."

"Yes." The darkness hid them even from their own eyes, but the cold steel of a gun pressed to his hip and Maria's hip reminded him of what he was doing. Even so, he could not bring himself to regret. It might mean exile from Eden, but this taste of his forbidden love was too much to resist anymore.

o~O~o

Had to be fast enough.

Burning lungs. Sweaty hands. Too sweaty to grip the gun properly. That could kill you. The kick would send the weapon flying out of his hands when he shot.

And he was planning on shooting. If they thought they could hurt Maria and get away with it, they were dreaming. And he was going to wake them up.

If he could be fast enough.

When he kicked down the door, Maria's eyes widened, and muffled screams pressed to her gag. She shook her head vigorously, and Lovino knew he had made a mistake.

The pain of a blunt object hitting him exploded through his skull and he crumpled to the floor, but he managed to cling to consciousness by his fingernails. He couldn't afford to make stupid mistakes when both of their lives were on the line like this! He rolled over quickly and took a blind shot. The wet sound of the bullet punching through flesh and his attacker's cry told him that he'd hit. He didn't shoot again—no use taking another blind shot when he could have killed the man with the first one, and he had no time to reload if he ran out of bullets—but staggered to his feet just in time to dive out of the way of another shot. He shot twice, and heard the man give a shout and fall when the second hit.

Silence. Were there any more?

He heard the shot too late.

He felt the bullet rip through his insides, and then the pain came, a hot knife twisted into the wound. He gritted his teeth and ignored it, pressing his hand to his lower torso to hold in the blood and tissues. Maria. Too important for him to slow down and let himself get shot again, where it could kill him this time.

He turned and ducked out of the way of three more shots. And returned them. The man fell bonelessly, dead before he hit the floor.

"Maria," he gasped, from pain and the fear he was just now allowing himself to feel. "Are you hurt?" He fell to his knees beside her, ripped the gag from between her teeth and replaced it with his mouth, kissing her desperately just to feel the warmth that meant she was alive, that he had a reason to go on living.

She twisted away, much too soon. "What are you doing? _You're_ hurt!" She wriggled her hands in her bonds. "Untie me so I can help you!"

He did as she ordered. An angel indeed, more beautiful than ever as her soft fingers probed his wound and her healing touch spread in warm tingles through his body.

"You shouldn't have come."

"I know."

"I love you, so I won't let you get hurt ever again."

"I love you too. And that's why you're worth it."

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><p><strong>AN: I'm sorry DX I know, the ending was a cliffhanger. But don't worry, he doesn't die. I don't do character deaths :P I tried to find a way to make it so the last four lines of dialogue could have gone to either character, but... Eh. If you squinted and turned your head to the side a little, I guess you could see it... Ish. (my fail authory moment there)<strong>

**Can you tell I've been working on my fight scenes? I've written two books and the second one was very dude-flickish. There were a lot of guns and swords and dying. I've never really written it in a fic before though. So tell me how I did! :D**


	12. A Vampire in the Sun

**AN: Okay, I have a confession to make... I used to be a Twi-hard. I totally grew out of it, and now I have very minimal love for vampires-if anything, they kind of get on my nerves because I'm so sick of vampire romances.**

**BUT I FRIGGIN LOVE ROMANIA**

**He's just so cute! He's my new vampire obsession. *crosses out "Edward" on my Team Edward shirt and writes "Romania"* Pen Name Is Invalid, I owe you for opening my eyes to the joys of Romania~~ Hope everyone enjoys reading this as much as I liked writing it, especially Pen Name Is Invalid (your pen name rocks btw :P)!**

**Prompt: Romania getting stuck in a tree and Hungary having to help him down. Slightly on the romantic side, please. (From Pen Name Is Invalid)**

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><p>Romania had sat there cursing to himself in the tree for two hours now. There were only so many things you could do for two hours without getting incredibly, completely, brain-melting-out-of-your-ears bored, and sitting in a tree alone with absolutely no entertainment was certainly not one of them.<p>

_This is the last time I take a nap in a tree_, he growled to himself. He had just meant to lay down for a few minutes on his nightly foray… But the mostly nocturnal nation had stayed up all day yesterday for the world meeting, and had lost a whole day's worth of sleep—by the time twilight fell, he had been exhausted.

He'd just put his head down for a minute, and when he'd woken up, the sun had been shining.

As a nation, Romania could not die. But unfortunately, he was also a vampire, so the sun hurt him just a teensy bit more than your average sunburn. If he entered direct light, especially bright summer sunlight like this, it would send him into writhing, shrieking convulsions of pain that made him wish he _were_ dead.

There was only one way he could get out of this tree before nightfall, and that would be if someone walked by with a heavy trench coat or an umbrella. But there was no one in sight.

With a sigh, Romania pushed his back more firmly against the tree to avoid a tendril of sunlight reaching a little too close for comfort. Even dressed in a black suit that covered him from wrist to chin, he was uneasy around light. One encounter with that kind of pain was enough to teach Romania to avoid the sun like the plague.

Romania supposed it was a curse, being a vampire—confined to the night, forced to drink blood to survive. But that was the only life he'd ever known, and he did not think he could handle any other. The day was too garishly bright and hot and claustrophobic. The night was cool and velvety soft and safe.

But the night was lonely too. Not that Romania needed many friends—he had enough, with his fellow Balkans and the other Eastern European nations—but that wasn't the kind of loneliness he felt. Having many friends didn't keep anyone's coffin warm during the day.

Finding a lover was a little easier said than done, though, especially for Romania. He'd heard that any number of America's female citizens would fall all over themselves to date a vampire, but he really didn't want to date a regular human. Kissing was perilously close to biting at times, and while a country could survive losing blood easily, a human was more fragile.

Suddenly Romania sat up ramrod straight. A faint sound had touched his ears—whistling! And that meant a person who could potentially get him out of this godforsaken tree! "Hey!" he called as loudly as he could. "Anybody there?"

"Romania?"

_Oh no! _Romania wished he could take the call for help back. The absolute last person in the world he'd wanted to find him was Hungary.

"Romania? Where are you?" A pale brunette head wearing a white kerchief and a large orange flower appeared underneath him. "Now where did he go? He shouldn't be outside on a sunny day like this."

Romania tried to make as little noise as possible. Hungary frightened him—she was as angry and violent a person as he'd ever met—but at the same time he almost admired her for her gentle motherliness. Both reasons that he didn't want her to find him. After she got him down, she would either apply her frying pan to his skull for being so stupid as to be caught in a tree in daylight, or she would mother-hen him into oblivion. Romania would've preferred even Poland, who would laugh at him for centuries to come, over Hungary as his rescuer.

Unfortunately, Hungary had the presence of mind to look up. And it was a little difficult to hide in a tree when he was wearing a three-piece suit and a beribboned bowler hat and couldn't move two inches in any direction for fear of searing agony.

"Romania! What in the world are you doing up a tree?" she demanded.

"I didn't mean to," he cried. "I fell asleep up here last night and when I woke up it was already almost noon."

"Do you want to fry yourself?" she cried with exasperation.

"Of course not!" he snapped back, beginning to get aggravated with her tone. Why would he put himself in a potentially agonizing position on purpose? "Now are you going to get me down? If not, can you please give Bulgaria or somebody a call?"

"I'll get you down," she sighed. "Just let me go see if I can find anything to keep you out of the sun."

She vanished, trotting back towards the World Meeting building, where several of the countries had remained to discuss more politics after the meeting was officially over. It was a good opportunity to confer with allies in a more formal setting, so many nations stayed for at least three days afterwards.

Romania sighed and closed his red eyes against the glaring sun, hoping that Hungary would return soon. Even though he'd prefer any other rescuer over her… Well, she was still a rescuer.

Soon enough she was back, with a pale leather trench coat he recognized as Russia's. "Russia let me borrow his coat," she called up. "I'm tossing it up to you, okay?"

"Okay." He braced himself against the tree, ready to catch it.

Hungary tossed the garment up, and Romania stretched out a hand to catch it. But the coat was too heavy for her throw to carry it up far enough, and as it just missed Romania's fingers he instinctively reached out for it.

Straight into the sun.

"_AUGH_!" Before Romania knew what had happened he was screaming. Dimly, he felt the ground hit his back and the breath leave him in a sickening gush, but that didn't stop him from howling with air he didn't have in his lungs. Everywhere was fire—heat, pulsing, beating, stoning him to death—a thousand needles—paralyzed—on a pyre—burning, charred flesh curling in the flames—screaming—an eternity—Hell—Hell—Hell. _What had he ever done to deserve Hell?_

o~O~o

_WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE HELL?_

And then it was over, and he was back in the blessed coolness, the safety of the shadows. With vague surprise he realized that his flesh was not burned, not seared like it had felt like it was. Sobbing, he clutched Hungary tight—she was the one who had drawn him back into the shade underneath the tree and thrown Russia's coat over him. His eternity in Hell was served—so did that make this Heaven?

"Oh Romania, I'm so sorry," she choked, holding him as she rocked back and forth, crying silently. "I didn't mean to… I didn't…"

"It's… It's okay." His voice came slowly, in a rasp. His throat was raw and he tasted blood in his mouth from screaming so loud and so long. His long, pale hand fisted in her shirt, an anchor to a reality without pain. After so much hurting, not hurting was almost too good to believe. "I know you wouldn't… On purpose…"

"Romania, I didn't… I'd never hurt you, I promise!" She was still crying, although his tears had dried up.

"Shh," he soothed. Suddenly _he_ was comforting _her_. "It's okay. I'm okay now."

"That was the scariest thing I've ever seen." Her voice was subdued. She buried her face in Romania's pale hair, her tears sliding into it.

He was touched by her concern. Carefully he sat up, making sure to keep the trench coat carefully shadowing his face and hands. "Don't worry. It wasn't your fault."

Her big green eyes were awash with tears. Romania thought, with some surprise, that she looked pretty when she cried. Not many people did. "But I…"

"It's not your fault," he said firmly. "If anyone's, it's mine, for getting stuck in that stupid tree in the first place."

She laughed. "That was pretty stupid of you, huh?"

"Very." Suddenly he pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Thanks, Hungary. For the coat, and for getting me out of the sun."

Hungary looked startled. "I… Uh, you're welcome." Then she kissed him, this time on the lips. Hers were startlingly warm and alive against his. "Don't make me save you again, though."

He chuckled. "Sure thing."

They walked back to the building holding hands, both huddled under the trench coat to hide from the sun. And once Romania was safely back in the darkness of his coffin, he fell asleep and into dreams about warm lips on his and beautiful emerald eyes.

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><p><strong>AN: Just so you guys know, I might be a little backed up on requests for a while. A couple chapters back I got like a bazillion xD Not that it's a bad thing! Just be aware that if it takes forever, it's probably pretty far down on my list since I do these in the order I recieve them.<strong>

**Keep reviewing and sharing the love or flames or requests or whatever you got for me! :D**


	13. Wife

**AN: Hello to the peoples~ Welcome back to Your Wish is My Command! Just to let you know, I'm doing pretty well at getting all the requests done! But I still have a lot *Tamaki emo corner moment (for you Ouran peoples)* But I will perservere! Just be aware it might take a while for yours to show up :)**

**Today I'm breaking my rules about posting requests up in the order I recieve them. Vulcanblood is my cyberbuddy and she's not feeling well, so I'm helping ease her sickness with SuFin! :D Hope everyone loves this adorable pairing as much as she and I do ^^ Please review, everyone! They make-a me so happy *Italian accent***

**Can you tell I'm posting this late at night and am super sleepy? xD**

**Prompt: I want fem!Finland and Sweden… heh… Sweden is on my awesome list now. ^-^ (from Vulcanblood)**

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><p>Marching in the snow wasn't a fun experience. Even in snowshoes, slogging through the snow wasn't an activity Finland enjoyed.<p>

Finland swept back the hair escaping her tight military-style ponytail and wobbled her way across the snow. It was impossible to determine what would be underneath that blank sheet of whiteness, and Finland was a little clumsier than most of the men and women in her company. Honestly, the only reason she was here at all was because she had to be—a country didn't simply sit back while his or her people were at war—but that didn't mean she was much of a help. In fact, this wasn't an actual company. It was her honor guard. No one had told her this, because they were worried it would upset her to think she needed protection—honestly, she was just glad no one had said anything because if they had, she would've had to refuse a guard like any self-respecting country would. As long as she could fake being in the dark, she could stay safely surrounded by twenty armed soldiers of the highest caliber.

And Sweden.

None of the soldiers guarding the two of them were for him. He could take care of himself. He was here to protect her, not to be protected.

Sometimes she was scared of Sweden. He was so much taller than her, towering over her by almost twenty centimeters, and his expression was a bluff cliff face, all hard lines and severe angles. He moved like a wraith despite his height and muscular build, however, trudging across the snow without a sound. His blue eyes, more vivid than an aurora, watched her with a care that sometimes contributed to her fear of him, and sometimes made her realize that she trusted no one else in the world more than she trusted him. If she wanted anyone by her side, it was him, for all that he frightened her and wouldn't stop calling her his wife despite her insistence that she had never been married. If anyone could protect a delicate little flower like her, it was him.

They had little more than two or three miles to walk from where the helicopter had dropped them to the temporary camp where they would meet up with the rest of their regiment, but Finland was panting after half a mile. Even though she didn't feel much guilt in faking ignorance about the real purpose behind her assignment to this company, she didn't want to be more of a burden to them than she had to be.

Unfortunately, the perpetually frozen air of her home made it hard for her to hide her exertion. Her panting was betrayed by the ghostly puffs of vapor that rose from her lips with each breath. Sweden glanced at her often, his gruff face unreadable, but his blue eyes concerned. She studiously didn't look at him. He might have been scary, but Sweden was her role model. She wanted to be strong like him. And that included not looking like a wimpy little girl in front of him. She'd been walking through Nordic blizzards since before they'd invented snowshoes—she could do this! Swiping a bead of sweat from her pale forehead, Finland trudged forward determinedly.

And tripped over a buried rock and fell flat on her face.

A blast of pain seared through Finland's ankle, but worse than that was the hot gush of humiliation that heated her cheeks and made tears prick at her eyes. Loud shouts came from her comrades almost before her face hit the snow.

_They were expecting this_, she thought despairingly, a few tears slipping out of her tightly clenched chocolate-brown eyes. Hopefully they would take them for moisture from the snow. _They were just watching for me to fall_.

Before anyone else could reach her, a pair of familiar strong arms flipped her over and lifted her onto a lap she knew well too. Sweden didn't always ask for permission to hold her, so his quiet strength was no stranger to her.

"Are you okay?" he asked in that muffled, slurred way of his.

"Yes, I'm fine!" she squeaked. _So much for looking strong_. Ignoring Sweden's warning look, she tried to rise, but a shot of pain down her ankle made her drop back down into his lap with a cry. "Ouch! I mean—it's fine! Everything's A-okay!" She laughed nervously.

Sweden gave her one of those looks again, the are-you-kidding-me? look he always gave her when she protested being his wife. Then he directed his attention to her ankle. Gently he pulled her snowshoe and combat boot off her foot and probed the area through her sock. "Hurt?" he asked, poking around her ankle.

Finland wanted to disappear. Everyone had stopped and was watching the two of them sitting there in the snow as nighttime fell. No one wanted to be caught out at night in the winter in Finland. But it was a little difficult to ignore Sweden when he was determined to help you, so she responded to each poke. "No… No… No… Augh!" She drew her knees towards her chest, trying to swallow back a couple tears.

"Not broken," he said. "But you tore something, for sure." He pulled an extra pair of socks out of his backpack—extra frostbite protection was a must in every soldier's survival kit—and put them on her foot. "Too swollen for shoes," he explained when she tried to protest.

"But if I can't wear snowshoes, how will I walk?" she asked, eyeing the camp she could just see through the falling dusk.

"I'll carry you." Before Finland even had a chance to cry out, Sweden had swung her around so her legs were wrapped around his waist from behind and she had her arms around his neck.

"Sweden!" she cried, blushing furiously. "Please, just let me walk…"

"No." He started slogging through the snow again, and the rest of the group followed, eyeing the pair of them with concern.

Finland wanted to vanish. _This is so humiliating…_ Besides, it was much too close to that "couple" image everyone in the army seemed to have of them. "But…"

"No." Sweden didn't even look at her.

There was no arguing with Sweden when he had his mind made up. Finland hid her blush in his shoulder. "Okay…"

Riding piggyback to the camp was even worse than walking. She was so conscious of the worried glances her guard directed at her, and the uncomfortable closeness of Sweden's body. Not that he didn't hug her and pin her to his lap whenever he wanted anyway, but in her weakness she was suddenly so aware of Sweden's strength. He held her like it was nothing. His snowshoes sank too deep into the snow, but whenever another soldier offered to carry Finland for a while, he gave a noncommittal "Nmf," and a shake of his head, and the soldier backed off. Finland wished she could see the look in Sweden's eyes when he sent them packing like that.

_I rely on Sweden so much. When have I ever done anything all on my own?_ she wondered with despair. _I can't even walk two miles without getting hurt._ There was pit lodged painfully in her throat. She was able to quiet her sniffles, but she could not stop the tears that began to fall as they neared the orderly rows of temporary barracks. The glistening drops fell on the back of Sweden's neck. They were probably freezing on his skin, but he didn't brush them away, and he didn't ask what the matter was. Finland was grateful for that. Sometimes his silence was the best thing about Sweden.

Sweden marched right past everyone who attempted to speak with him and strode purposefully towards the infirmary. Finland tightened her grip on him. "Um… Thank you, Sweden."

"Mm." Sweden glanced around for a paramedic. It didn't seem like any was around at the moment, so he set her down on a folding chair, knelt in front of her with her foot in his lap, and carefully peeled the layers of woolen socks away himself. It was surprising how gentle such a strong man could be. Underneath the socks, her foot was a swollen lump of purple bruises that made Finland have to swallow back her lunch. "Pretty bad," he noted.

Finland bit her lip. "I'm so stupid."

"You're not," he said with uncharacteristic vehemence in his normally inflectionless voice. His rough, callused hand reached up to cup her cheek. "Why would you think that."

"I fell," she said. "I can't even walk right. And then you had to carry me, and that made you tired, and we'll probably meet the enemy tomorrow and you'll be exhausted. Don't deny it," she added miserably when he opened his mouth. "I can tell." He obediently clipped his teeth together. "And I can't do anything right, and I have to have a guard. A guard, Sweden! Do you think any of the other countries need a guard? I'm a hopeless, useless excuse for a country." Finland stared at her hands, folded together on her lap, through a wavering screen of salt water. "I'm just so pathetic."

"Stop that," Sweden said. "I would not make a pathetic person my wife."

"We're not married," she said dolefully.

"Finny." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "If I thought you were pathetic, I would have made you walk to toughen you up. But I carried you."

She jerked her chin out of Sweden's hand. His blue eyes were too deep, too captivating. She was scared of the way she drowned in them, of how she didn't _want_ to look away. Ever. "If I wasn't pathetic, I wouldn't have fallen."

Sweden huffed. "Fine then. You're pathetic."

Finland's jaw dropped and her head swung back around to stare at Sweden. Even if she was saying that about herself, it was a blow to hear it come from him, who she aspired to be like.

Her eyes flew wide when, unexpectedly, she felt the caress of his lips. Once, chaste and soft, just for a moment. The same surprising gentleness he had in his hands was in his lips as well. Then he pulled back to gauge her reaction, to see if she would stop him from coming back a second time. She didn't. She couldn't. She was paralyzed by shock when his lips touched hers a second time, lingering, deepening. And then when the shock wore off, she hesitantly reached up to place one of her hands on the back of his neck and the other on his cheek. And kissed him back.

She didn't understand why or how she could feel this way about him when she was so terrified of him, but she did. Her heart was in her throat, and her breathing was uneven as their lips met again and again, and her world was summer in the middle of a Nordic winter when he kissed her. How could she love him so much? It just didn't make any sense, but she couldn't stop kissing him.

"Ah!" She broke away when their movement jostled her injured foot, sending a sizzling jolt of pain through her leg. "Ow."

"Sorry." Sweden didn't look sorry. He even smiled, a very rare occurrence for him. "You can be pathetic if you want, Finland. I'll always be here to be strong for you."

"Thank you, Sweden." Finland hesitantly brushed a hand through his hair. He caught her hand and held it to his face.

After a long moment of contented silence, Sweden asked, "So does this mean you can be my wife now?"

"No!" At the very last second, Finland remembered that she couldn't leap to her feet because her foot was still hurt and it was also lying in Sweden's lap, and for all his toughness she doubted he would appreciate her full weight landing there. "Just because we… I… You… You know! Just because we did _that_ doesn't mean we're married!" She blushed furiously. Somehow she was unable to say _because we kissed_—that would be the final admittance that they were together, and she'd been denying that for too long a time to give it up out of the blue like that.

Sweden chuckled and stood, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "I will go find the doctor."

"I'll be here…" The blush his kiss had ignited in her cheeks slowly died down as she sat alone, listening to the clock tick away, fingertips feeling her lips as if Sweden's kiss would have changed them in some way. She felt different, somehow, like a weight was gone from her chest. Strange. Somehow she felt lighter, and like she was breathing easier than she had in a long time. A knot inside of her was unraveling, a Gordian knot that had wound ever tighter and ever more complex since the first time she found herself staring into aurora-blue eyes.

"Wife…" She blushed even though she was the one saying the word.

But for some reason, the word she'd detested for so long didn't sound so terrible, not with the ghost of Sweden's mouth on hers. Not now that the knot in her chest was gone. Now… Had a word ever sounded more beautiful to her?

To Finland's surprise, she couldn't name a single one that had.

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><p><strong>AN: Flufffluffflufffluff! :D<strong>

**So I started rereading The Gentleman's Alliance Cross again. IT'S SO GOOD! If you've never read it, I highly recommend it! Arina Tanemura is a very gifted mangaka :D I love her work**

**Oh and I started watching Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle! It's really good-a little cheesy Japanesy, if you know what I mean, but it's clean enough for my kid sister to watch and the characters are super-fun! Well, at least Fie is. Me and my sister are now having an argument over who gets who between Fie and Allen Walker from D. Gray-Man. I think right now I'm married to Allen and my sister is married to Fie xD**

**But who cares! -end recommendation moment- Please keep up the reviews! Thanks for being such wonderful readers, I love you all! (If you're reading this it means you sat through the above rambling and I love you for it! I'll try to stop uploading things so late xD)**


	14. Those Who Know The Price of Freedom

**AN: Hey everyone! Okay just to get this out of the way, this is like, my LIFE right here. The first part, at least. I'm the only person in my class who says the Pledge of Allegiance and it just makes me want to cry. I'm a very patriotic person and I love America. Hetalia completely aside for the moment (I know, :O), this is a wonderful country and I'm very proud to live in it. It makes me very upset when people don't appreciate all the people who lost their lives defending this nation and its people. My grandfather was a soldier, so to me it is important for people to realize that freedom isn't free, but it's worth dying for. That was my inspiration for this fic.**

**SO IF ANYONE WANTS TO DISS AMERICA, JUST TRY IT. *fail tough face* But seriously, America is very special to me and this prompt is, I hope, a reflection of that.**

**Oh, and in case anybody who's not an American doesn't recognize some of the patriotic stuff used in here, I'll put them at the bottom.**

**Prompt: An AmericaxOc friendship fic, with POSSIBLE romance. (if you'd like) Summary: Despite being patriotic and looking at the Star Spangled Banner with pride on her face, Cathy Martinez can't help but feel remorse on how America is today and be fearful of her future. But all that changes when she makes friends with a fellow American named Alfred F. Jones, who may be the personification of America, the country she loves. (From CelticGirl7)**

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><p>"Now, please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance." The principal's voice over the intercom delivered the Pledge, the same as every morning, for the students to say along with her—and, the same as every morning, no one did.<p>

The tenth graders stood, of course, because the teacher made them, but no one spoke. They shuffled their feet or continued to work on their class assignment on the desk in front of them, but the principal was left to _pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all,_ alone.

Only one student spoke.

This student was Catherine Martinez, and she always said the pledge. Even as her classmates remained silent with bored expressions on their faces, or even spoke quietly to their friends, she recited the intonation with pride. She loved her country, and she counted it as a privilege to say those words and mean them.

But it discouraged her that she was the only one. Shouldn't everyone be proud of the land they called home? Could they really have the audacity to live on this land, claim its soil and its lifestyle as their own, and not love it? Shouldn't everyone have the decency to stand up and pledge themselves to an ideal, a goal, a dream of mankind that people had fought and lived and died for? But it seemed that no one put much stock in patriotism these days.

Cathy could, if she was honest, see why. America was not what it had once been. Sometimes it seemed like it was going in a bad direction—the ideals upon which it had been founded were not always the principles by which it lived today—and to be truthful, it scared Cathy. She had a life to live, and a future in this country—if she couldn't trust the path America was on, how could she be sure of her own future?

o~O~o

The rest of the day passed slowly. The only parts of the day that Cathy actually enjoyed was drama class, where they were reenacting the scene from _Oedipus the King_ where the Chorus relays the news of Oedipus' self-blinding, and the spare moments in class where she had time to do a little writing in her notebook. By the time the bell rang, she was desperate to escape. The grating chime was heaven sent.

On the walk home, Cathy thought about what she'd do once she got there. _Maybe I'll watch Yu-Gi-Oh… Or Fullmetal Alchemist! Anything to avoid that History project…_ She groaned, not bothering to internalize it. "I swear, teachers think we have no homework to do for other classes!" she cried, throwing her hands in the air dramatically even though no one was around to see it. She did things like that sometimes.

When she reached her house, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar car in her driveway. It was a sleek, silver foreign car, with a black leather interior—nothing that she recognized. She had an eye for a decent car, and she would have remembered a beautiful specimen like that.

Cathy unlocked the door and stepped inside, pushing back the hair that had been blown out of her pair of side braids by the wind. "_Mama? Papa? Quien esta aqu__í__?_" She asked in Spanish in the hope that their visitor could not speak the language.

"_Nena!_" Her mother rounded the corner from the living room. "We have a visitor, Cathy. He's a coworker of your father's, and he'll be staying with us for the weekend on business."

"A coworker?" Cathy's father was a campaign and publicity manager for the current President, working closely with many extremely high-ranking government officials. Who could this be?

Cathy followed her mother into the living room and got her first look at their visitor. It was a bit of a shock—to put it mildly.

He was nothing like the old, graying politician she had envisioned. He wasn't even in a suit—he wore a khaki military-style uniform with an ostentatious bomber jacket—and he couldn't have been more than ten years older than Cathy. He had dirty blond hair with an unruly flick in the front and blue eyes behind half-rimmed glasses. And he was actually kind of handsome. When he noticed Cathy there, he waved one gloved hand with a cheerful grin. "Heya! You must be Catherine! I'm Alfred F. Jones!" he said in an unnecessarily loud voice.

He seemed like the most immature grown-up Cathy had ever seen, especially for a politician. She liked him instantly.

With a smile, she responded, "Call me Cathy. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Jones."

He waved airily. "Nah, nobody calls me Mr. Jones! It's Alfred."

"Alfred." She smiled politely.

Cathy's father stood. "_Nena_, Alfred is going to stay with us for the weekend to discuss business with me. Please do anything you can to make him comfortable."

Cathy nodded. "Sure thing, Papa!" She smiled tentatively at Alfred. She wasn't good with strangers. "Just let me know if you need anything."

The unnaturally young politician winked at her. "You got it."

Cathy went back to her room and dropped her backpack to the floor and herself into the chair in front of her computer. Tapping her mouse as she waited for the laptop to start up, she ran through a list of stories in her mind that she could work on. When she settled on one and the screen came to life, she opened it and began typing.

A slight knock on her door sucked her out of her fantasy world. "Come in," she called.

Her father entered the room. "Hey _Nena_. How was school? I didn't get a chance to ask before."

"It was fine." She turned towards the door in her chair. "How was your day?"

"Good." He smiled at her. "So I suppose you have some questions about Alfred, huh?"

"Yeah, actually, I did. What does he even do anyway?"

Her father shrugged. "I'm not actually sure. But he's the President's right-hand man. He takes Alfred's advice over nearly everyone else's. He's pretty much in charge of foreign policy, too, but I don't think he has any official titles or anything."

Cathy's brow furrowed in confusion. "How does that make sense? He's so high up, but he's not really…there?"

"Yeah. Hardly anyone knows about him either." His dad grinned. "So you'd better keep it all hushed up."

With a laugh, she nodded and winked conspiratorially. "You got it, Papa."

o~O~o

Cathy groaned as a troll decapitated her character. "Dang it!" she grouched. "So close!"

"Dude, that was friggin awesome!" crowed a voice from behind her.

"Ah!" Cathy jumped two feet in the air. When she landed back in the seat, her heart rate was going at a hundred miles an hour. She whirled to see Alfred standing at her shoulder, looking at the screen over her shoulder. "_Madre mia_, Alfred, you scared the crap out of me!"

The strange politician laughed. "Sorry, I was watching you play. You're totally wicked!"

"Thanks," Cathy blushed. "You wanna give it a go?"

"Yeah!" Alfred nearly shoved her out of the seat and grabbed the controls from her hands. "Lezzgo!"

Cathy watched him play from where she'd landed on her rear end on the floor, amazed. He acted like a complete child! His playing was interspersed with loud exclamations of "Aw!" and "Take that!" and "Hiyah!" Along with some choice curses that he hurriedly choked back every time he glanced to the side and realized that Cathy was still there, watching him play.

After a while of this, Cathy started giggling. She couldn't help it. Usually she was shy around strangers, but she couldn't help but laugh at Alfred's antics. She'd seen preteen boys act exactly like this! And talk with less slang!

Alfred paused the game and swung around to look at her. "What? You can't be laughing at my mad skillz!"

"No, no," Cathy assured him between chuckles, swiping at the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "It's just… It's so funny!"

"What?" Alfred cocked his head like a puppy. His blue eyes were amused behind his glasses, though.

"The way you act… And talk… Are you sure you're a politician?" she finally asked. It was probably a deplorable breach of protocol, but she was sure Alfred wouldn't be as uptight about his position as most.

With an unnecessarily loud laugh, Alfred stood and helped her to her feet. His hand was hard and square, the hand of a man used to hard work and fighting for his place in the world, not a soft man who devoted his life to the intrigues of running a nation. "Well, what do you think?"

"I don't think you are." She hadn't released his hand yet, and he made no move to take it back. "You're not a vampire, are you?"

"Not last I checked," he chortled, wiggling his fingers in hers. "Do I feel dead to you?"

"No," she said with a laugh. "But you're definitely not what Papa thinks you are, are you?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," he retorted with a wink. He finally took his hand back and left with a wave. "Thanks for the game!"

Cathy watched him go, even more perplexed now that she'd decided there was no way he was what he said he was. This opened a realm of possibilities. Shrink, real estate agent, secret advisor, CIA agent, super-spy, Spiderman. He could've been a Pokémon trainer or a state alchemist for all she knew!

All she knew was that there was much more to their visitor than met the eye.

o~O~o

Cathy knew it was creepy, but when Alfred got a phone call, she listened in on it.

After spending a whole night going over what Alfred could be hiding in her mind, she was more curious than ever. And now she was determined to find out who or what he was.

"Yo, you've got Alfred here…" Cathy heard him say through the door to his room. She paused as she passed, on the way back from the kitchen with a bowl of cereal to eat while she typed up her latest story or watched anime, whatever she felt like doing. "Oh hey Iggy!" Iggy? Who could that be? A loud buzzing noise came from within the room, presumably the person on the other side of the line screaming. "Whoa, dude, take a chill pill. I didn't mean anything by it… Dude! Calm down! I _know_ you've told me a million times… Alright, alright! Just stop lecturing me, old man! I'll call you by your name, no need to threaten our trade agreements…" _What? Trade agreements? Between people? _"Fine, whatever twirls your beanie, Ig—I mean, England."

_England? Wait, that's his real name?_ Cathy pressed her ear more firmly against the door. This was getting interesting.

"No, sorry, you can't come over. I'm staying with my boss' campaign manager and his family for a day or two. He wants me to work out a strategy to get him reelected, since I kinda know what the people are feeling and whatnot… Sorry! I can't help it if France is being obnoxious, what else did you expect? It's France, dude. That's what you get for living right next to him."

Another outburst so loud that Cathy could hear it. "Whoa! No need for that language, dude… I really am sorry I'm not around. The house is yours if you really want it that bad… Yeah, seriously. I can be nice if I feel like it! Don't act so surprised!... Yeah, key's under the doormat. Don't drink all my coke, okay, old man?"

This time the outburst was so incredibly loud that Cathy could actually make out the words. "WHY WOULD I DRINK THAT CRAP, STUPID AMERICA?"

Alfred laughed. "Yeah, yeah, love you too, man. Catch ya later!"

Eyes wide, Cathy scrambled away from the door, retrieved her now-soggy cereal from the floor beside her, and fled to her room, slamming the door behind her.

Breathing heavily, she stared at her blank computer screen and tried to sort through all she had heard.

_Okay, first. Alfred was talking on the phone to a guy whose real name is England. Then this England guy threatened their "trade agreements." Alfred said he could feel what the people were feeling… The people who would elect "his boss?" Is that the president? That would mean he can feel what the American people feel… _Cathy went goggle-eyed just at the implications of that, but she forged on—there was still more to list. _They were talking about some obnoxious guy named France, and Alfred answered to the name America. He _answered_ to _America_. Like…like he _was_ the country._

Could it be? It would explain so much. Like how he was so close to the president despite his seeming lack of qualifications, and how he seemed to personify the stereotype of what Americans acted like in the eyes of the rest of the world. But was that even possible? Could it even happen? Did this mean every nation had a personification?

Cathy's head was spinning. This was…this was just unreal. This was beyond Spiderman or Pokémon trainer or any of the other options she had jokingly considered. Could Alfred really be a living, breathing person that represented the nation she loved and feared for so much?

o~O~o

The next day was Alfred's last day at Cathy's house. She had been walking small around him ever since overhearing his phone call the day before and coming to her startling conclusion, which wasn't hard since he and her father were locked up in his office much of the time. But she felt liked she had to say _something_ to him, even if she wasn't able to confirm her theory. So when she noticed him sitting out on the lawn, watching the clouds absently, just a few minutes before he was supposed to go, she went to sit beside him.

It was different now, being around him. No longer was he a silly, boyish colleague of her father's. Now she could almost feel the power radiating off him. America was a strong and proud nation, and Alfred looked every inch the country he may or may not have represented.

"Hey." He smiled at her. "Thanks for having me here," he said.

"No problem." She turned her face towards the clouds, crossing her Bermuda-short clad legs and kicking off her sandals carelessly. "It's beautiful, huh?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "Nothing like a big sunny sky."

"_Oh beautiful, for spacious skies_," she hummed, watching him carefully.

As she had expected, or maybe feared, he brightened visibly. "Dude, I love that song!"

"Me too," Cathy said. Her chest felt tight. "As you can imagine, we're very patriotic around here."

He laughed, too loud like usual. "I am too."

"I guess that makes sense, seeing as you're a politician and all." She took a deep breath to steel herself and said quickly, "But don't you worry sometimes? About where we're going?"

Alfred shrugged, but he looked more serious than she'd ever seen him. "Not really. You see, America's a special nation. Not only is it relatively young, for a country, but it's very strong for its age. Even when it was just a new nation, it was still a force to be reckoned with. Not militarily, at least not yet, but industrially it definitely gave other nations a run for their money." He laughed. "Sorry, got a little off-topic there. Anyway, America's special because it was the first colony to gain independence. When Europe owned most of the world, a lot of countries were treated badly, but they couldn't even think of fighting back. Britain and France and Germany and the Netherlands were just too strong. At least that's what people thought. But Americans showed all the oppressed countries that they _could_ fight, that there was something worth fighting for. Freedom," he said with a crooked grin. "It's not free. People die for it, but they die because it's worth it. They die because they believe that to die for something that precious is an honor. And it is. It's the most honorable death there is."

Alfred turned his face towards the sun and smiled slightly as the wind caressed his face, blowing his blond hair. "So yeah, America might be going a little off-track right now, but I don't think it'll last. The thing about Americans is, they know the price of freedom, and they know it's worth paying. So they won't ever give up when their freedom or their rights are in danger. It's just the way we are. Just the way I am," he added softly.

Cathy wanted to cry. "_We hold these truths to be self-evident_," she began softly. "_That all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness_."

He grinned softly at her and continued, his voice quiet and reverent in a way she'd never imagined he could be, "_That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness_." He touched Cathy's hand. "See? We're going to be alright. That stuff those old men said back then, it's still alive today. We still believe in it." His grip on her fingers tightened.

Suddenly his watch beeped. "Well, it looks like I'd better jet," he said, offering her a hand to help her up. She took it and rose. "I'm going to miss my flight if I stay any longer."

"Thank you," she said on an impulse.

He smiled as if he knew exactly what she meant. That she was thanking him for the hope he'd given her. "No problem."

"Goodbye… America."

He didn't even look startled. Instead he grimaced. "Man, the boss is gonna kill me…"

"I won't tell anyone." She spat in her hand and held it out to him. "Spit swear."

His grimace melted into a grin. "Spit swear." He moistened his palm too and shook her hand. "Thanks, Cathy. I hope we meet again someday."

"We will," she vowed. "I know it."

He let go of her hand with a little reluctance. "I'm going to have a really fun time explaining this if it ever comes up," he chuckled.

Cathy laughed. "It was so nice to meet you. I don't feel so scared anymore."

"Me neither, kid. Not while I have citizens like you." He winked and strode off towards his car, his hair tossed by the playful prairie breeze, without a backwards glance.

Cathy watched him drive away, waving, as her parents joined her on the porch.

Her mother sighed, placing her hands on Cathy's shoulders. "I worry about that boy. He's so young and innocent. Don't you think Congress will eat him alive?"

"I don't think so, Mama." Cathy covered one of her mom's hands with her own. "Alfred is going to be just fine."

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><p><strong>AN: *gets off literary soapbox*<strong>

**I pledge Allegiance... = duh, guys. The Pledge of Allegiance**

**Oh beautiful for spacious skies = opening line of America the Beautiful**

**We hold these truths to be self-evident...to affect their safety and happiness = excerpt from Declaration of Independance**

**^^ Well, I hope you liked it, CelticGirl and everyone! My next prompt will probably be up very soon, as I enjoy it very much :D Until next time, please keep up with the reviews and be sure to check out my plethora of other fanfiction!**


	15. Roses

**AN: This has to be my favorite prompt I've ever written. Okay, one of them, I love them all a lot! But this one intrigued me a lot and I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do for it, so I sat down and wrote it the day I got it xD But you guys know my policy about posting prompts in order, so it's been sitting there alone for a while... Well, it wasn't TOO terribly lonely, as I've been pretty productive recently considering how much schoolwork I have to do :D But never fear, summer is almost here! (Can you tell I watched The Avengers the other day? I'm all superheroed up now. Did anyone else notice Captain America's brown bomber jacket but me?)**

**Thanks for the wondermous prompt, LuxembourgTheAmazing! Everyone please review this chapter, I'm very anxious for feedback. This is my first-ever xreader and the first fanfic I've ever written in present tense, so I'm a little nervous... I tried to make it so every reader would be able to fit into the character! Hope I did okay :D**

**Prompt: Could you do a FranceXReader? One where he's not all pervy, but more of a gentleman? Thank you! (From LuxembourgTheAmazing)**

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><p>Nothing interesting has ever happened at the café where you work. It's an ordinary café where ordinary people eat and even time seems a little sleepier inside.<p>

But it pays, and that's what's important. You need the money—you have to get by somehow, and college doesn't pay for itself. Working at a sleepy little hole-in-the-wall café isn't how you want to spend your days, but it is necessary if you want a roof over your head.

And the first time an interesting customer comes into the café, it changes your life.

You hear the bell over the door ring, a tinkling chime that you have learned to hate in your time working there. Not that you hate serving the customer whose entry it announced—the sound just got on your nerves after a while. Gritting your teeth with annoyance, you turn towards the door, fully prepared to have to force a grin and welcome them warmly no matter how irritated you felt.

Instead, your mouth falls open, because what might have been the most gorgeous member of the male species is standing in the doorway, smiling at you.

The man is blond, his wavy hair falling to his shoulders, with a slight hint of stubble on his chin. He has fair skin and proud features, and looks well-muscled in his foreign designer T-shirt and jeans. Most captivating of all are his eyes, deeper and bluer than an ocean, sucking you in like a whirlpool down deep into the depths of him. Even though he is just standing there, he has a grace about him—that, coupled with his stunning appearance, is enough to dry your mouth and stop your thought processes in their tracks.

When you realize how idiotic you look standing there staring, you snap your jaw shut and manage to stammer, "W-welcome. Table for one?"

His smile widens. "Yes, thank you." His voice is heavily accented, his tongue heavy with the tones of France despite his impeccable English.

Your heart skips a beat—because there is nothing hotter than an accent, of course.

You show him to an empty table, hand him a menu, and ask, "Can I get you a drink?"

He thinks for a moment, then responds, "I will just have some water, if you do not mind." His words are careful and have wide pauses in between, so you can tell he is new to English.

This makes you want to comment on how well he speaks. It always made you proud back in high school when someone complimented you on your rudimentary French. "You're not from around here, are you? Your English is very good though."

He brightens visibly, making butterflies stir in your stomach. "Thank you! No, I am from France, as you could probably tell." He chuckles, not self-conscious in the least about the foreign air he wears on his sleeve. "My family and I are on vacation here for the summer."

"That's awesome!" You have always wanted to go to France, and have to restrain yourself from trying to wring every little detail about the country out of him. Then you realize that you have yet to get his drink for him. "Oh, I'm sorry. Give me a second, and I'll be right back with your water."

He laughs, and you have to tear your eyes away from him. He is practically a god. You flee to the kitchen and try to control your pounding heartbeat.

Your friend Jessie appears at your shoulder, craning her neck past you to catch a glimpse of the man. "Who's that?" she asks with a sly smile, elbowing you in the ribs. Her curly dark hair is drawn back in a ponytail and her pale cheeks dimpled with her grin. "He totally looked like he was flirting with you!"

You blush, mostly because you hope she is right. Then you realize something—you don't know the answer to her question. "I don't know… I didn't ask his name."

Jessie looks offended. She has more fun interfering in other people's personal lives than pursuing her own, but she is a good friend, loyal and funny. She's most of the reason you can get through twelve or fourteen hour days working at the café—she makes it bearable, goofing off with you behind the boss' back and complaining with you about how badly your feet hurt after the dinner rush. "You have to ask!" she cries.

You have to dig in your heels to keep her from physically pushing you out of the kitchen back to his table. "I have to get his drink!" you protest. "Give me two seconds, woman!"

"Fine, two seconds," she pouts cutely. You've always been jealous of her easy good looks, but then she says she'd always wished she looked more sophisticated like you.

You fill a glass with water and carry it back to the Frenchman's table. "Here you go," you say, setting it down before him. You want to ask his name—goodness knew Jessie will chew you out if you don't—but you chicken out at the last second, intimidated by his good looks and his foreignness. "Have you had a chance to decide what you want?"

"Yes," he says. Suddenly his ocean-blue eyes catch yours and he smiles crookedly. "I'd like you to sit down and let me buy you dinner."

Electric shocks jolt through you from your fingertips to your toes. You are surprised at his forwardness, of course, but more than that you are shocked that he is interested in you. And pleased, so pleased it is all you could do not to race back to the kitchen and have a freak-out moment with Jessie before accepting. And of course you are going to accept—your boss could fire you for all you care. It is slow right now anyway. By nine most of the customers have cleared out, but apparently this man was still on European time.

When you don't respond right away he prompts, "Have you already eaten?"

"No, no," you say quickly. "That would be wonderful… But at least let me take your order to the kitchen."

He chuckles. "Aren't you the workaholic."

You blush. "I have to earn money somehow. College isn't going to pay for itself. I need to save up."

He looks at you curiously. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Nineteen," you tell him. "I wanted to go to college right out of high school, but… Scholarships are pretty hard to get, and my parents can't afford to pay my way through."

He winces sympathetically. His captivating deep blue eyes make you feel light and buoyant, floating. "I am sorry, that does sound tough. I must confess though, I cannot relate… I come from old money, you see. My family is descended from old French nobility."

You are torn between slapping him and just walking away. Is he trying to pick you up, or is he just arrogant, flinging his obvious money and class in your face like that? He has everything you want, have to work so hard for, without lifting a finger.

Maybe he sees the look on your face, or maybe he never meant to leave the conversation there, but he adds, "But it does seem rather fun… I don't know, but it seems like there's something rather romantic about having to earn your keep, _non_?"

You do something unexpected—you laugh. "You wanna trade lives?" you ask, still chuckling.

His gaze softens as his grin widens. "Oh, but if we had, we might never have met, _ma chere_." You blush violently red, which makes him smile more widely. He gestures at the chair across from his "Why don't you sit down and let your friend over there take our orders?"

You turn around, and sure enough, Jessie is spying on you. She jumps when she realizes she's been caught, blushing, but when you gesture her over she comes, albeit sheepishly.

You move to sit down, but before you can your mysterious French date is on his feet, saying, "Please, allow me." He pulls out the chair for you and you sit, feeling like a princess. No guy has ever treated you like this before. Jessie claps a hand over her mouth to hold in any comment she might make, and you glare daggers at her over the menu.

"I want the chicken Caesar salad," you tell her, not wanting to be a pig or order something unladylike.

"And I would like the soup of the day," the French man said, handing his menu to her. "_Merci_."

Jessie bites her bottom lip to restrain a laugh (or a squeal, if you know her at all) at his French and jots down the orders on her notepad. Then she rips off the top sheet, stuffs it in her pocket, and scribbles on the next leaflet. She slaps that one down in front of you before scurrying off back to the kitchen.

In her big, scrawly handwriting, it reads ASK HIS NAME.

You blush and crumple up the sheet before he can see it. "So, I don't think I ever got your name," you say casually.

"It's Francis," he says, laughing a little. "Very French, _non_?"

You laugh too. "It definitely is," you chuckle. "You have a last name, Francis?"

"Bonnefoy," he responds. "And you?"

You supply him with your name, and then you talk. He inquires about your life, and you tell him. You find it surprisingly easy to open up to this handsome foreigner about your boredom with your job and your determination to carve out a place for yourself in the world someday. What you keep to yourself is the loneliness you sometimes feel, even with friends from work like Jessie. For you, work is your life—a twelve-to-fourteen-hour road to reaching college and your future—but when you fall into bed at night, you have to wonder if that's all there is. You have no boyfriend, but you never really feel that gap until midnight opens up the empty place in your heart that always vanished by the morning.

But with Francis, you feel that midnight gap in your heart slowly gape wide, and you feel more alone than you ever have; at the same you feel more alive, more aware than ever. You eagerly listen as he tells you about his home in France, about the old family estates that he will manage someday. When his father retires, he will become the heir to a prosperous winery, with acres of vineyards and an army of workers at his command. He seems just as open with you as you were with him—he confides in you his fear of being unfit for the job.

"I am an only child, you see," he explains. "I have no siblings who could take over the family business should I fail. So I must not fail, but that seems a very daunting task." He laughs self-effacingly.

Your heart goes out to him. Even if he seemed cocky before, he is really insecure now. With a boldness you don't recognize, you reach out to touch the strong, square hand resting on the table in front of you. "I'm sure you'll be amazing, Francis. I know I don't know you well," you blush, realizing how true this is—you only met him an hour ago!—but you continue. "But I know you won't let your dad down."

He doesn't look surprised when you touch him; instead, his grin widens. Your heart skips as he turns his hand up to meet yours, so your palms lay against one another. His hand is rough and callused from work, but the smooth muscles under his skin know their strength and his touch is gentle.

"_Merci_, _ma chere_," he says, gazing into your eyes with his molten blue. You feel like you're standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking an endless sea of blue, teetering on the brink of falling, falling, falling.

"N—no problem." You want to slap yourself for stuttering, but you can't help it.

"I understand that we just met." His eyes meet yours unashamedly, completely careless of his forwardness. "But can we do this again sometime? We have been here for a week and I have not yet met anyone who makes me feel at home here like you do."

"Yeah, sure! I'd like that." You'd love that. You're sure that somewhere in the café, Jessie is having a fit over this, just like the one you're having inside right now.

"I'm glad," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Would you mind giving me your telephone number?"

"Sure." You reach into the half-apron at your waist and draw out your notepad and a pen. You scribble down your number and give it to him.

He takes it reverently and folds it up, placing it in the breast pocket of his pale blue shirt. Then he stands, and you do too, swallowing your disappointment that he's leaving.

"Thank you for giving me the opportunity to buy you dinner," he says, taking your hand and raising it to his lips. "And for the promise to see me again." The touch of his lips and the soft caress of his breath send your thoughts flying in a million directions, like ants fleeing a crushed anthill.

"No problem." You want to step closer, but you restrain yourself. You don't want to seem too desperate. "Just try to call after ten if you can, I have to work late a lot."

"Can I come by tomorrow on your lunch break?" he asks.

"Yeah, that sounds great. I get off at two," you respond.

"Until then." He presses a kiss to your knuckles once more and then drops your hand. "I look forward to seeing you then."

"You too." You stand there for a second watching him go, dazed, and you can feel yourself falling, falling, falling faster than gravity into an endless blue ocean and the sky beyond.

o~O~o

The next day, Francis shows up during your lunch break and takes you out again. And the next day, he treats you to a movie. That becomes your routine—Francis meets you during your lunch break or after you get off work almost every day, and even if the two of you just sit around on a park bench for an hour you can tell he enjoys every minute just as much as you do.

And you fall for him. How can you help yourself? He's handsome, and warmhearted, and he makes you feel like a princess. And best of all, you never doubt for a second that he cares. Every smile, glance, and touch proves it. You can't often understand the French words he murmurs, half to himself and half to you, but you often catch "_amour_" and "_toujours_." Love, and forever.

But deep down inside, you are panicking. You know that the forever he promises you in his native language simply cannot be real—at the end of the summer he will go back to France, and he will stay there to inherit his father's wine empire and become even richer and more successful than he already is. And you will continue working like a dog at the café, scrounging pennies for your college fund, and in all likelihood you still won't amount to all you aspire to be.

That makes your waning days with him even more precious to you. After two weeks of dating, he kisses you for the first time, and his kisses are worth their weight in gold. Every kiss you can steal, you take; every second you can linger in his arms, you stay. Perhaps it is the romance of heartbreak that makes you feel so at home in his arms—but you don't think so. You love him. You really, truly love him, and you hate that he will leave you on a set day fast approaching.

The pair of you lay strewn out on the grass of the local park, watching the smoggy stars. His hand is wrapped around yours—it is just too hot for him to hold you, even at night. Finally you speak. "When do you leave?"

"Six days," he says softly.

Your breath leaves you in a rush. Only six days. He tightens his grip on your hand.

"_Ma chere_," he whispers after a long moment of silence. "Would you like me to make love to you before I go?"

You hesitate. Part of you wants him to. It has been nearly three months, and you want this whirlwind romance to be something you remember forever. You're a virgin, but you feel like you could give that away for this man.

And yet you say, "No," just as quietly as he asked. Because, foolishly, you hope that it might give him a reason to come back. You don't want to give something so precious to a man you might never see again, even if you love him so much your heart aches at the thought that, in a few days which are ticking away as you speak, he must go away.

"I understand." He pushes himself up on his elbow to kiss you, though. His lips are as soft and leisurely as ever, but under the surface of the contact beats a passion you can't help but mirror. You have to break away before you change your mind.

He's panting as he kisses your forehead softly. "_Ma chere_… I think… No, I know. _Je'taime_."

A thrill chases through you. He's never told you this before. "I love you too, Francis."

He hugs you close. "I do not want to return to France. I want to stay here, in America, with you."

Distressed, you sit up abruptly. He looks at you oddly, unsure of why you suddenly look upset. A hint of rejection creeps onto his face, and that hits you like a punch to the gut.

"No, no, I want you to stay too," you say, kissing him hard. "But you can't do that. You can't give up your future for me."

He sits up and buries his face in the bend between your neck and shoulder, wrapping his arms around you tightly. "And if I want you to be my future?"

"Don't be silly," you force yourself to say. "This is… We are… No. You can't disappoint your parents and give up such a prosperous future for me, you hear? No matter how much I love you." Your voice grows soft and vulnerable at the last. You _do_ love him, and you _do_ want him to stay. This hurts more than anything you have ever done, turning him away like this. But you just can't let him throw away everything for some American wannabe-college student.

"But…" His ocean eyes are so unbelievably sad. "_Ma chere_… Do not make me leave. I am an adult now, and I can make my own decisions. I want to stay here with you."

"No," you say firmly. "You have a life in France, Francis. You're not throwing it away for me."

"_Ma chere_." He kisses your jaw. "Please."

"I don't want you to stay," you say, trying not to cry.

Depthless sorrow rebounds between the both of you. "I love you," you whisper, "But we have different lives. It's time we got back to them."

He is silent for the longest time. Then he raises his eyes to yours and kisses both your cheeks. "You are my only," he promises. "We will see one another again."

o~O~o

You do not see Francis again. By the next day, he is gone, dragged onto an earlier flight by his parents because an important meeting came up for his father. And just like that, he is gone, the man who promised you forever when in your heart you knew he had no means of delivering.

For two weeks you receive nothing. Not a call or a letter or even an email. By then you are despairing that Francis even remembers you, surrounded once more by the familiarity of home. _French girls are pretty_, you moan to yourself. _He's forgotten you already_. Being back in his own country has broken the spell between the two of you, you know it. Despite your heartbreak, you are grateful for the time you had with him—even that was more than you deserved.

That was the day the first rose showed up on your doorstep.

It was a perfect, long-stemmed, deep red rose. Attached to it was a cream-colored card lettered with Francis' own hand.

_Do not think I have forgotten you, _ma chere_. I said you were my only, and you are. Even though I cannot be with you, please accept this rose as a token of my love until we can be together once more._

Your heart is in your throat, and you begin to cry as you bury your face in the wide petals, pretending for a moment that it is Francis' lips to which you are pressing a kiss. "Thank you," you whisper, as if he can hear the words you breathe into the rose from an ocean away. "I love you too."

The next day, you and Francis take up emailing one another again. His parents had forbidden him to use the Internet for the first couple weeks, so that he could catch up on the work he'd missed in America, but now that he has everything finished, you two talk regularly.

And every day, a single rose shows up on your doorstep. Red roses, pink roses, white roses, yellow roses, black roses, even blue roses. Your apartment fills with them. The scent of roses clings to your skin. You become a legend in your apartment building—the girl whose lover sends her a rose from France every single day, without fail.

Although they are a poor substitute for Francis' actual presence, the roses help you feel cheerful even though he's an ocean away. It's the proof of his promise to keep you in his heart, and the backing to all the words of love he types for you but you can never hear.

Summer becomes autumn, and autumn gives way to winter, but your life is still full of flowers even though the world around you is dead. Anticipation mounts in you—you have enough money to sign up for the spring semester at the college you planned to attend and finally get started on a future that will hopefully lead you out of the café and, if destiny has any pity, back to Francis.

You come home the night before classes start, and stop at your door to pick up the rose on the stoop.

Only, it isn't there.

You look around—no sign of it. You poke your head over the railing overlooking the snowy parking lot to see if it fell—nothing.

Desperately, you wonder if someone has taken it. But you can't believe anyone would be capable of that cruelty. Everyone in your apartment complex knows the significance of the roses, and those who don't melt every time a flower lands on your doorstop smile when they get near you and smell the perfume on your skin. You are the little miracle in some of their lives, the proof that true love exists and is able to span oceans and continents and cultures, dancing around all the boundaries between lovers who were meant to be.

But that isn't true, not anymore.

Heart crumbling in your chest, tears stinging half-frozen in your eyes, you dig for your keys in your pocket. _I knew it._ _I was foolish to think he'd stay interested even though I wasn't there_, you think with an odd mixture of fury and bone-deep sorrow. When you get the keys out, your hand is shaking so much with your sobs that it takes you three tries to fit the key into the lock.

When you manage to get the door open, you hurry inside, eager to escape the cold. All you want to do is fall into bed and cry until your tears are spent, but then you notice something odd. There is a light on in the living room.

You tiptoe forward, your hand a death grip on your keys. It is the best weapon you have, if there really is someone in your apartment.

Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you step into the room and see the very last person you expected to see, sitting on your beat-up old armchair.

"Francis!" you choke. Before you know what you are doing you have dropped your bag and keys to the floor and have thrown yourself into his arms so hard the armchair rocks dangerously when you land on his lap. "You're here! You're really here!"

He's there, in all his golden godlike glory, with his ocean eyes full of laughter and love. "I thought I'd bring you this one myself," he says, extending a crimson rose towards you.

Your lips crash down on his and you kiss him desperately, not even bothering to take the flower from him. "Francis, Francis, Francis!" you cry, unable to stop repeating his name.

He laughs and kisses you back just as eagerly. "Slow down, _ma chere_," he chuckles. "I've missed you too."

"What are you doing here?" you demand, pulling back to rememorize his face. You reach out to trace fingers across his cheekbones, the stubble on his chin, his eyelids, his shoulders, as if you cannot believe he is really here. Part of you can't.

He grabs your hand as it passes over his mouth and brings it back to his lips, kissing your palm hungrily. "I'm here for you, of course."

"What?" you cry with dismay. "I thought I told you not to do that!"

"You didn't let me finish," he admonished. "And to attend school."

For a long moment you are frozen in shock. "What did you say?"

He grins and kisses you briefly. "I will be attending college with you this semester, _ma chere_. We'll be together."

You burst out crying, throwing your arms around his neck and bawling into his shirt. He holds you tightly and murmurs to you comfortingly, raining kisses down on your neck and hair. "_Je'taime_," he says over and over. "I promised, and I meant it. _Je'taime_."

"Thank you," you whisper. "Thank you."

"For what?" he chuckles, smoothing your hair gently as he holds you tighter. "You're reward enough in itself. Definitely worth going to school a few years for."

You shake your head, nuzzling into his chest. "No, I mean… Thank you for the roses."

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><p><strong>AN: =3 Oh, the fluff. If a man did that for me HONEY, I'D BE ALL OVER HIM! I would friggin marry him on the spot. It's so cute when men give meaningful gifts like that! My boyfriend got me a British copy of The Deathly Hallows when he went to England so I know that it's a good feeling P<strong>


	16. In His Arms

**AN: I'm breaking my rules about the order in which I post prompts again, but it's for another good reason... It's Angel the Neko's birthday! :D *confetti and noisemakers* She loves England and I thought this prompt would be a good way to show her how much I love her and appreciate our friendship :D It's kinda angsty so I think you'll enjoy it, Angel :) Happy birthday, my dear!**

**Oh, and it's kinda strange. Just saying. You'll see.**

**PS. REVIEWS. I DEMAND THEM. NOOOOOOW.**

**Prompt: I want something with Pirate England. I'll leave the pairing up to you. Just remember that: Pirate England. (from Angel the Neko)**

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><p>Captain Arthur Kirkland gazed up the mast at his crew, fists planted firmly on his hips as he leveled his infamous emerald glare at them. An icy, moist gust whipped his battered red velvet cloak back, but he didn't react to the cold. "You call that hoisting a sail?" he demanded harshly at the top of his lungs. "I know I didn't enlist you slimy bilge rats to dangle around in the rigging like rotten fruit!"<p>

"Aye aye, Captain," came the sullen reply from the grimy men clambering around the mast and rigging, tightening ropes and resecuring lines here and there. A few grumbled to themselves, but not where their captain could hear. No one wanted to make the Captain angry—he was fully capable, and had before, had his sailors strung up in the rigging by their ankles overnight for talking back to him.

"Yeah, move it!" cried Alfred, the first mate, from behind the captain in a poor imitation of the smaller man's intimidating stance. He smirked at the Captain. "Imma have my own ship in no time."

Alfred might have been Arthur's first mate, but he was also the man he'd strung up for idiocy most often. His dream was to get his own ship and crew, but it didn't have much basis in reality. He simply didn't have the discipline to run a crew with professional precision like Arthur could.

Arthur glared his second-in-command down, turning the full force of his baleful glare on Alfred. "I can handle it, thanks."

"Whatever you say, boss!" Alfred saluted casually, winking. His ripped shirt, leather vest, ragged trousers, and the bandana holding his hair back were as tattered as those of the rest of the crew, but he had an annoying swagger for absolutely no discernible reason. And it annoyed Arthur to no end. He had no clue why he had appointed the man to second-in-command, but he often wished he could toss him overboard regardless of how shorthanded his ship would be if he did. Unfortunately, Arthur was a reasonable man. And that meant he put not running his ship into a reef above getting rid of the ship's biggest nuisance.

Scowling, Arthur pointed furiously at the matrix of molding ropes winding around the billowing sails. "Go inspect them if you know what's good for you. And report to me later."

"Aye aye, Captain!" Alfred scurried up the rigging, as agile as a lemur, without a protest about Arthur's harsh words.

With a growl, Arthur stalked back to his cabin. _Of all the obnoxious little…!_ He slammed the door and tried to calm himself down. _I'm a reasonable man, I'm a reasonable man, I'm a reasonable, levelheaded man…_

Except, he wasn't.

He took off his triangular felt hat and tossed it on his cot carelessly, then unbuttoned his vest and started on the buttons of his loose, once-white shirt.

Underneath, the bandages dug cruelly into his skin, pressing down on the dead giveaway. Short hair and dirt hid enough, but breasts were hard to hide.

Captain Arthur Kirkland had been born Alice Kirkland, the daughter of a blacksmith in a little town by the sea. She'd been rather a beauty, with long golden hair and eyes greener than the sea. That had been more of a curse than a blessing.

When her home was attacked by raiding pirates, she had become a treasure they looted. She had ended up a captive on a sickeningly rocking worm-eaten tub, locked in a hold full of rats and whatever moisture sloshed inside when storms rocked the boat. But that, along with the illnesses she contracted locked in the moldy, churning dark, was not the worst of it. Pirates had little entertainment out at sea, and many were crude enough to do things to her she had never thought to endure but in her nightmares.

Torment had made her hard, and one night when the ship set into port, she killed the man meant to be her guard. That had been her first kill, and she had done it bare-handed, strangling the scrawny-legged man like a chicken for supper. That had been her first step to becoming a man—women did not kill, not in the world she'd come from. Only men hurt other men. And they hurt women too, as she now knew. But women hurt differently than men, because women, as she discovered, did what had to be done, no matter the cost.

What she'd had to do was disguise herself as a man. By now, because of what she'd endured, she distrusted most men—and she trusted no one enough to ask for passage back home. So she found men's clothes, bound her chest until it was flat, and clipped away her long golden hair, and _voila_—she'd become Arthur, shedding innocent little Alice like a worn coat. Arthur was brave and fearless, nothing like poor little Alice, still trapped shivering in the dark, waiting for the next round of torment. As Arthur, she could escape having to confront that pain. Alice was a completely different person from who she'd become, and her pain was distant. Arthur could sympathize, but he did not have to endure her memories like she would, if she ever resurfaced.

Arthur thought of himself as Arthur now, as a man. He'd been a pirate for a long time now, climbing painstakingly through the ranks until he had a ship of his own. In many ways, he was just as brutal as any pirate—but he never condoned the cruelty Alice had endured. Women were strictly forbidden on his ship. His whole crew thought it was because he was a gentleman; not a one suspected that the little man with the drill-bit green eyes that made them feel like he stood twenty feet tall, the one to whom they all bowed and scraped and knuckled their foreheads, was really a woman. A woman who was afraid that if another woman ever set foot on her ship long enough, her secret would be uncovered at last.

Even though Arthur thought of himself as a man, his female body was hard to ignore. Even after years of doing it, binding his chest was still painful and a chore. At least, now that he was a captain and had his own cabin, he could unbind himself at night. When he'd first started out—as a rigging rat, because of his small size—he'd had to wear it for months on end, until he could take a bath.

Arthur sighed in relief as the bandages fell away. Now that they were gone, Alice's body emerged. She was still a beauty, despite all the years of abuse and binding and the dozens of scars Arthur had accumulated climbing ropes and handling torches on a swaying ship and fist-fighting in taverns. Alice was still shapely, with a slender waist and a considerable bust (which was what made it so difficult to hide), and once you could tell she was a woman other feminine traits appeared. Her hair, though cropped short, was still carefully combed and washed whenever she had the chance unlike most of the men, and her scarred hands were womanishly thin and long. Her trousers didn't hide the shape of her legs, either, which were decidedly feminine if you looked for it.

Sitting down on his cot, shaking sweat-caked golden hair loose, Arthur gazed out of his porthole at the sea. It was gray and restless tonight, but not in a way that indicated a storm. The ocean was temperamental, that was all.

"Captain! I did the—Oh."

Alice jumped nearly two feet in the air, clutching the front of her shirt closed with both hands. "Alfred! What in the name of Calypso do you think you're doing, barging in here without knocking?" The words were Arthur's, but Alice's voice shook in a way Arthur's never would have.

"I… I just…" Alfred swallowed thickly, his eyes wider than twin blue moons. He was staring at the bulges at the front of her shirt. "You're…"

Alice wanted to cry. But Arthur stood up and shut the door calmly, blocking out all unwanted ears. "So?" He began calmly buttoning up his shirt. Or down. Alice couldn't stand the thought of a man's eyes on her chest, so Arthur started buttoning at the top.

"A woman… I never… How long?" he babbled.

Despite herself, Alice burst out laughing. It might have been slightly hysterical. "Since I was born, I think," she snickered. "That's generally determined before you're born."

Alfred colored. That was unexpected—Alfred never blushed. Ever. Arthur had heard some very bawdy jokes in his time as a pirate, but not a single one had ever made Alfred even remotely uncomfortable. "Well, yeah, I know, but…"

"I started disguising myself as a man at fifteen," she said. "And I'm twenty-seven now."

"No way! You're the same age as me!" Alfred said with a grin, in one of his characteristic joyrides away from the topic at hand.

Arthur rubbed his temples. "Focus, please. Now, am I going to have to toss you over the edge and just haul a line or two myself, or are you going to keep your fat mouth shut?"

"I'll keep silent…" He looked dubious though. "But, Captain… Why are you here? How did you get roped into… This?"

"I got raped," Arthur said softly. Alice wailed internally at the word. "Several times. By pirates. I didn't have anywhere to escape, so I figured, if you can't beat them, join them."

Alfred looked appalled. Then comprehension dawned on him. "That's why… No female prisoners."

Arthur nodded curtly. "I trust you'll keep this quiet. Or I'll kill you."

"Aye aye," he said weakly. He knew Arthur was serious. "But…"

"This changes nothing," Arthur hissed savagely. The dubious look in Alfred's eyes was infuriating. "I am still your Captain, and you're still going to hop when I say toad, no matter what gender I really am! Am I clear?"

"Sir—ma'am—sir, yes sir!" Alfred coughed. "Um… I guess I'll go to bed now…"

"Good night, Alfred," Alice said wearily, sinking to the cot. "And by the way, if you talk in your sleep, you'd best find a gag. And you're never allowed to get drunk again."

"Aye, Captain." Alfred sounded considerably less eager now. "Good night, Captain."

As they sat there in the dark after Alfred left, Arthur and Alice wrestled for control. Half of Alice wanted to retreat behind Arthur like she always did, devolving all her fear to a strong, capable front, but the other half wanted escape after twelve long years in hiding. _Someone knows now. I can come out more now, right?_

_No._ Arthur won, as always, shoving her back down into the cold black depths. It was only a matter of time before Alice remembered, too vividly, what was too painful for remembering. And even though Arthur was strong enough to haul a sail up in a lightning storm or man the wheel in a riptide, neither of them was strong enough to endure that soggy pit of Hades again.

o~O~o

_That bloody blind pig-kissing idiot!_ Arthur swore violently in his head. _That stoneheaded lump of horse dung! _Every single insult he could come up with, he was directing towards Alfred in his head. He didn't voice them aloud, though, as much as he wanted to—he was as rough-tongued as any sailor, and the maelstrom of curses in his head probably would have sent his whole crew running except for the man they were aimed at. Alfred was clueless like that.

Pirates certainly weren't the smartest bunch, but it wouldn't be long before people began to notice the subtle differences in the way Alfred now treated Alice. He snapped his mouth shut on crude jokes in front of her, and allowed her to go first for their rare chance at bathing when they stopped at an island to buy (or steal, depending on how amenable the vendors were) supplies. If this went on much longer, he'd start opening bloody doors for her! Arthur was beginning to wonder if he'd have to shoot one of Alfred's toes off just to prove he was as much a man, and a pirate, as he had ever been.

That afternoon, Arthur clambered up the rigging himself to inspect it. He never _had_ gotten Alfred's report—other things had come up—and he hardly trusted the lazy lout to make a thorough inspection anyway. Alice's body made it easy for him to fit through webs and slither along lines as easily as walking across the deck. Being a woman was very useful in some ways, despite all the inconvenience it caused.

Tugging at a slimy, coarse rope to make sure it was still secure, Arthur let himself fall into an old, familiar pattern from many years ago, before he had been promoted to first mate and then captain. He had actually enjoyed being a rigging rat, and missed it just a little.

Suddenly something caught his eye. A ship. A ship fast approaching, and flying unfriendly colors too.

"Unfriendlies approaching!" he roared down the mast. "Battle stations!"

The ship was swarming in an instant as men exploded from belowdecks. Clatters of guns and cannons being wheeled to their stations rose from below as Arthur swung his way down the ropes, shouting orders. "Cannons at the ready! One of you dogs bring me my spyglass! NOW! This is no garden party, you miserable wretches!"

The men were all business, hard scarred faces set with determination—now anyone could see the craft, and it was obvious that the vessel was better equipped than theirs. Arthur's ship, with its barnacle-plated hull and sagging visage, seemed very poorly equipped to deal with the streamlined, lacquered beauty making its way towards them.

Arthur knew this, and he wasn't a stupid man. He wasn't going to take on a battle he had no chance of winning. "Cannons to the aft! Helmsman, hard to starboard! We're getting out of here!"

The helmsman's beefy arms jerked the wheel hard right, and the ship began to turn with a throaty groan. Arthur dangled from the rigging, still only halfway down, staring at the oncoming ship.

A sleek black ball flew towards the ship. "Incoming!" he roared.

With horror he saw that the cannonball was going to hit the mast. He disentangled his fingers from the lines and let himself drop, but it was too late. Wood bits exploded everywhere as a huge chunk was ripped from the mast, and Arthur landed hard on his chest. The world went black around the fringes as Alice gasped for breath. Fear paralyzed her as the burning pieces of the mast rained down around her and choking black smoke billowed into the air, pouring into her lungs. Breathing was so hard. Dimly Alice realized it was the binding, that it was holding her chest down, she couldn't breathe—her nails scrabbled at her shirt uselessly. She was too far gone already. Nothingness opened its arms, and she fell into them, too empty to be afraid anymore.

o~O~o

It was dark. Air rasped into Alice's raw lungs, burning down her ruined throat. Her arm was a mass of throbbing pain, but it was muted now—broken, but had been set while she slept. For some reason, there was a point of pain on her lower sternum, but she couldn't imagine how it had gotten there. The only thing that _didn't_ ache was the ache she'd become used to—her chest. It wasn't bound.

She sat straight up, panic gripping her with an icy fist. The blanket concealing her nakedness from the waist up nearly slipped before she realized she wasn't wearing a shirt, but she caught it before it fell.

"It's okay," a voice soothed. A strong hand pressed on her shoulder. "Lay back down. You're too weak to get up yet."

"Alfred?" she whispered.

"Yeah, it's me." As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make him out, sitting on a stool next to her cot. "How you feeling, Captain?"

"Perfectly awful," she replied honestly. "Is there…"

"Here." He pressed a canteen of water into her hand. She took it from him with her good hand and drank deeply, tossing the soothing liquid down her seared throat.

"Slow down," he cautioned, grabbing her wrist and pulling the mouth of the bottle from her lips. "You'll choke."

Alice forced herself to swallow what was already in her mouth and averted her eyes. Well, actually, it was more of a nervous gulp—she was very aware of Alfred's proximity to her bare torso, and it was making her feel…well, not like Arthur. "Er. Thanks. You were the one who did up my arm, right?"

His silhouette nodded. "Yeah. And I pulled you out of the wreckage too—I made sure to get there first. I knew you'd be upset if anyone else found out." He blushed a little. "You weren't breathing, so I cut your bandages… I'm sorry, I swear I didn't look! And I nicked you a little with the knife… My hands were shaking. I was really worried." His blue eyes studied his bare feet.

Alice was a little touched by his thoughtfulness. She didn't even mind the fact that he might have seen her bare torso. At least now she understood the pain on her sternum—his knife had accidentally gotten her skin when he was cutting the bandages away. "Wow… Thanks, Alfred."

"Anything for you. Captain." The title was almost an afterthought. Warmth suffused her face, but she tried to shake it away. This was Alfred!

She cleared her throat. "Where are we, exactly?"

"On our way to Spain," Alfred said. "We were just a few leagues off the coast of Galicia. We're going to get the mast fixed—that was most of the damage—and then we should be good to go."

Alice felt terrible. Alfred had taken perfect care of _her_ ship, while _she_ was passed out from one measly little blow. Maybe a woman _was_ too weak to be a captain. "Alfred, I…"

"Shush. Don't say anything you'll shoot me for later." He smirked. "Besides, while we're alone… I have something to ask. Well, do, really."

"Do?" Nervousness was apparent in her voice.

"Yeah." She knew what was coming, saw it in his eyes, but she was frozen and couldn't stop him. She felt his hand at the back of her neck, and then his lips caressed hers softly, once, twice, three times. When his mouth met hers for the third time, it lingered, gently parting her lips as he kissed her.

She was paralyzed by shock. Alfred was kissing her. She hadn't been kissed in twelve years, since she was…

Memories crashed down on her. Hurting. Crying. Hiding where there was no place to hide, begging in the dark. No mercy. Violation. Rough hands, angry hands, drunk hands. Laughing lips. Pressing, taking. Bites. Fear of touch, fear of pain, fear of every whisper in the darkness. Hands closing on a throat—her hands, throttling, until eyes popped and a black tongue lolled and she was free.

A strangled scream escaped her throat and Alfred was gone. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was just… If you'd died today… But I still shouldn't have done that."

"No, you shouldn't have!" she snapped. "What the heck! You find out I'm a girl and I'm suddenly irresistible? I saw you with that girl in the last tavern we visited, so I _know_ you're not starved for companionship!" She didn't mention how it had felt to watch the two of them together, like an animal gnawing at her insides. Arthur didn't like to think about what that implied.

"That's not it," he said. "Do you even know how long I thought I was a freak of nature for being in love with you?"

Her mouth fell open and she gaped like a landed fish. "You…what?" she asked faintly.

"I love you." There was no apology in his eyes, none whatsoever. And no trace of doubt. "But I never said anything because I thought it was wrong, to be in love with another man. You wouldn't believe how relieved I was when I found out," he laughed.

"I…" How many times had Alice noticed that he was handsome from her hiding place deep down inside the body and mind she shared with Arthur? How many times had she shivered at the touch of his strong hands while Arthur held their body steady? How many times had she dreamed her own dreams, dreams about Alfred that Arthur refused to acknowledge once they were awake?

The cot creaked as he sat beside her. "I know this is sudden. But think about it, okay?" A brief kiss touched her lips. "Just think about it."

And then he got up, opened the door, and left. And Arthur came back, and Alice realized that she had been in control this whole time—for the first time in a long time, she had occupied her own body, her own eyes, her own hands, her own mouth. And what had she done with them? She'd let Arthur's cautiousness and her own fear steal away her chance to use them.

_Next time…_

_There will be no next time._ And because Arthur was stronger than she was, Alice faded back into oblivion.

o~O~o

Alfred didn't bring the kiss they'd shared up again soon, for which Arthur was grateful. He didn't like how bold that kiss had made Alice. She tried to pop out at the most inopportune moments—when he was yelling at his crew or commissioning repairs on the mast, and, above all, whenever he was alone with Alfred. Then she suddenly burst to radiant life inside him and tried to take back her hands to touch him, her eyes to drink him in, and most of all her lips to give voice to the feelings Arthur refused to acknowledge. He hated how their heart swooped whenever she saw him, and how her dreams were beginning to invade his. The lines between the two of them were blurring, all because of that sorry excuse for a pirate.

And that meant that Arthur was subject to her pain. He had nightmares about what Alice had endured. But he was strong enough to deal with pain. As the two personalities he'd separated so thoroughly began to meld, the pain became easier to deal with. Alice softened Arthur's heart, and Arthur made Alice strong enough to endure the pain of her ordeal. Together, they were the ultimate—better than either had been before.

Still, Arthur didn't want her. He wanted her to stay in her tidy little box and keep quiet; but that was becoming increasingly hard for her to do.

When the moment Arthur was dreading arrived, Alice pounced on the controls of their body and wrested them away from him. Now was her moment.

Alfred was delivering the bill from the carpenters, the final sum to pay for the repairs to her ship. As he turned to go, Alice caught his shoulder.

"Wait. Please." Arthur was kicking and screaming inside, but Alice gagged him just as easily as he had gagged her for twelve long years. Love had made her strong, and she would not allow Arthur to take her strength away again.

"Yeah?" Alfred flicked his unruly curl of hair out of his eyes. "What's up?"

Alice reached past him and shut the door, then tossed her triangular felt hat on the bed. "I've thought about it."

He knew what she meant right away. "You have?" His blue eyes were more beautiful than any sea, and she'd sailed all seven. "So, what do you say?"

"I say… You'd better not tell the crew about this or I'll string you up by your ankles again." That should mollify Arthur, at least to some extent. This would undoubtedly anger him, but what could he do? This was Alice's body now, and she was in love. She kissed Alfred, winding her arms around his neck.

Alfred wasn't shocked for long. He kissed her back, slowly and leisurely, careful not to trigger a panic attack like last time. No such danger. Alice had already endured that, with Arthur's help. She had separated the good from the bad in her mind, and now she could kiss him without reservation.

He broke away and kissed her cheek. His gasping breath was hot on her face. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said breathlessly.

"Really?"

"Yes. But if you tell anyone you're a dead man, you hear?"

He laughed. "Aye, aye, Captain."

She fell asleep in his arms that night, her first mate, her love. In his arms, she didn't have to worry about fighting Arthur for control, or wounds from the past making her hurt—in his arms, she was simply Alice, as female and innocent and beautiful as she had always been meant to be. And even if Arthur came back in the morning, if she was Alice in his arms, that was enough.

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><p><strong>AN: Yeah. The weirdness. She's bipolar. Sort of.<strong>

**I'm not really sure if bipolar is the word. She just has a hard time reconciling the two faces she wears, especially since Alice was hidden for so long. It was kind of fun, to mess around with her gender like that. I switched up the pronouns and everything. It was all very thought through, even if it appears random.**

**Oh, and if anyone has read any of my other fics you'll notice that I switched up the names. I usually use Britt(any) for fem!England, but I thought Alice would be more in keeping with the time period. So yeah! That's what happened, if anyone was curious.**

**I hope you liked it, Angel! :D Happy birthday!**


	17. Playing Doctor

**AN: Welcome to my second-ever xreader! :D This one was kind of a challenge for me, seeing as I'm not in love with Romano like I am with France, but I'm pretty pleased with it. I hope everyone else is too!**

**I have a few questions from reviewers to adress. They actually came from a while ago, but I was busy with school and it was all I could do to get new material out, much less read my reviews :( But now it's summer and I should be much more on top of things :D Anyway! 44mae asked if I could write a sequel to _Those Who Know the Price of Freedom_, but the requester, CelticGirl7, asked if she could write the sequel, so I'm waiving all sequeling rights to her. Oh, and Prussia is actually a micronation with actual land, Amberfox and Lyell. Their military has fifteen people in it and uses firecrackers :P**

**Prompt: Can you please make a Romanoxreader? (from 44mae)**

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><p>You always thought the man you would end up with would be a gentleman. That's every girl's dream, right? But you never did know how to pick what was good for you.<p>

It was dark as you walked home through a bad part of town. You were visiting a friend, but now you regretted staying so late. It wasn't far to your apartment, but this wasn't a place you want to be after the sun goes down.

You peeked down each alley you passed by, nervous. It was too dark to see well, though, so you didn't see the gang fight until you'd almost stumbled over it.

The sounds reached you just before you enter the alley. Just in the nick of time, you stopped yourself from stepping into the line of sight and listened to fight, your heart in your throat. The men shouted and groaned whenever a hit landed, and you flinched at the sounds.

You heard a cry louder than the others, and then the sounds of men running. A pair raced past you cursing, obviously in retreat—but no one followed. The sound of heavy breathing remained in the alleyway, but the voices and footsteps faded.

Holding your breath, you stepped into the alley. You knew there was a chance that someone would still be there, but you were simply too curious to stay hidden.

There _was_ someone there, but he was wounded. He was slumped against the wall, gasping and shuddering, holding closed a jagged, lipless rip in his stomach.

You ran to him. You'd never been able to ignore somebody in need, and if anyone ever needed your help, it was this man.

"Are you okay?" you cried, your hands fluttering over him. "Here, let me help you." You unwrapped the scarf from around your neck and pressed it to the wound. "Oh, this looks bad… Let me get you to a hospital!" You pulled out your phone to call an ambulance, but his bloody hand rose and knocked it out of your grip.

"No," he said through gritted teeth. "No cops. Can't… No. No cops."

You knew you should do something, but you wanted to respect his wishes as well. "Then let me take you home with me. I can take care of you," you offered.

He moved to shake his head, then grimaced and grunted with pain. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "Let's go."

As gently as you could, you lifted him to his feet, draping one of his arms around your neck. His other pinned your ruined scarf to the gash in his belly. Once you were certain that he was balanced, you started to hobble off together in the direction of your apartment.

As you labored on, you could feel the man getting weaker. More and more of his weight fell on you, and his steps grew slower. "Just a little farther," you urged him. "We're almost there."

He coughed, and blood sprayed the concrete before you. You started panicking, and you babbled, "It's okay, it'll be fine, I have bandages and medicine at home! You're going to be alright."

"I know. Calm down," he ordered irritably. That shut you up quickly. As rude as he was, you realized it was the slap you needed to come back from hysteria.

Sending up a prayer of thanks to the apartment gods that you lived on the ground floor, you unlocked your door and rushed the man to the couch. Almost before he was seated you were in the kitchen, trying to remain calm as you rooted through the cabinets for the bandages and medicine.

When you returned to the living room with the basket of medicine, a roll of gauze, and flesh-colored elastic bandages, you found the man had removed his shirt and was trying to clean the blood from the wound with it. Your scarf was in a pile at his feet.

"Here," you said, trying not to panic at the sight of the gruesome wound. Now that the bleeding had slowed down, however, you could see that the slice was long but shallow. Not a wound to die from.

You poured peroxide over a square of gauze and applied it to the wound as gently as you could. The man still stiffened and swore furiously. "I'm sorry," you said.

Through gritted teeth he spat, "It's fine."

You finished as quickly as you could so that you could patch him up as soon as possible. By the time you get a bandage around his middle, a little of his color had returned and he was breathing easier. "Thank you," he said gruffly when you sat back with a sigh, the words sounding strange in his mouth as though he wasn't used to using them.

"You're welcome." You gathered up the pieces of bandage and tossed them into the wastebasket. "So, are you going to tell me your name?"

He eyed you warily. "Why should I?"

"Well, I saved your life," you all but avoided snapping. How rude! "I think you owe me that much."

Sullenly, he nodded. "It's Lovino. Lovino Vargas."

"Nice to meet you, Lovino." You supplied your name, and he grunted noncommittally in return, not looking at you. You forged on anyway, determined at this point to get the man to show a little gratitude. Or at the very least acknowledge your existence. "Your name, is it Italian?"

He nodded. "My family's from Italy."

"Your family? Are they here in America with you?"

"_Si_. I have my brother and grandfather here with me." That seemed to bring him back to reality. "I should leave now." He tried to rise, but halfway up off the couch he gave a groan and fell back down, his face a mask of pain. Gritting his teeth, he tried to get up again anyway.

"What are you doing?" you cried, leaping to your feet and pushing him back down on the couch. "You're not going anywhere like that."

"I've got to," he grunted. "Feliciano and _Nonno_ will be worried about me."

"I do have a phone," you reminded him, planting your fists on your hips stubbornly. "You're staying here until you can walk. I'll let you give them a call to tell them where you are."

Lovino glared at you. "You're one stubborn girl."

"Don't make me call you a stupid guy for trying to get up and walk away after that kind of injury," you snapped back. "Now, lay down there and let me get you the phone."

Surprisingly, he complied with minimal grumbling. When you brought him the phone, he was still lying on the couch, glaring at the ceiling.

"Here." You handed him the phone, and he took it and began to dial a number. Then he held it to his ear and waited.

As he gazed off into space, waiting for someone to pick up the phone, you took the opportunity to get a look at him. Until this point, you just thought of him as an injured man—the thing that loomed biggest in your image of him was the gash in his stomach. Now you noticed the rest of him. He had a mop of shaggy dark hair tinted with red and with an odd curl standing out of the side of his head. Under the bandages, his body was lean but muscular, not an ounce of extra fat on his frame. He had a perpetually angry-looking face, but his eyes were wide in an almost childish kind of way, with an innocence that it would be easy not to notice if you hadn't seen those eyes full of fear and pain.

He was handsome, you realized. In a rugged, angry mobster sort of way. He was actually handsome.

"_Ciao_," he said when the phone was answered. "It's me, _fratello_. _Si_, I know I'm late but… I got into a fight again, okay?" Panicked shrieking erupted at the other end of the line, so loud that Lovino had to hold the phone away from his ear. "I'm fine, I'm fine, calm down!" he yelled at the phone from a safe distance. When he decided he was safe from being deafened, he drew the phone back to his ear. "Yeah, I know you told me not to… I didn't try to! These guys picked a fight with us!... No… Yeah, I know they didn't help me… Just because we're in the same gang doesn't mean they're going to stick around to get their hides peeled to save me!... _Si_, I'm sure. I'm alright now. No, no, don't worry about coming for me, you'll miss school! This girl picked me up off the street and patched me up… She says I should stay here tonight. I'll be home tomorrow just as soon as I can make it, okay, Feliciano?... Yeah. You got it, _fratello_. _Buonna notte_ to you to." He hung up the phone and extended it towards you. You took it back and replaced it on the cradle. "My brother says thank you for saving me."

"It's what anyone would have done," you said modestly. Lovino laughed a little. "He seems nice. Your brother, I mean," you added after a moment.

"Yeah, nice and loud. And stupid," Lovino grouched. "He's the most airheaded excuse for a person I've ever met. It's all his fault I'm mixed up in this crap. One of us had to be tough, and it sure as heck wasn't going to be him."

Your eyebrows drew down in a frown. "You can't blame your brother for you making the wrong friends."

Lovino laughed. "He's going to night school. Culinary school—he wants to be chef. Gotta pay for that somehow."

"How is you getting stabbed paying for night school?" you asked dubiously.

He shrugged. "Good money in a lot of illegal things."

You were a good, law-abiding citizen, and his offhanded tone scandalized you. With a sniff, you rose and strode over to the linen closet. "Here's a pillow." You threw it at him, and he just barely caught it. "And a blanket." He looked bewildered by your sudden change of attitude, and that just enraged you more. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight…" He watched as you stomped off to your room and slammed the door.

When you were alone in the familiar darkness of your room, you tried to calm down. But you couldn't. What an infuriating man! He got himself injured, then acted like you were inconveniencing him by helping him, and now he was acting like a martyr because he was a drug dealer or worse! You wanted to kick him out of your apartment right now, but you couldn't. It would take cruelty that you simply didn't have in you to do that.

You lay down to sleep, your mind a whirlwind of furious thoughts. It took almost an hour for your fury to calm enough to let you sleep.

o~O~o

When you awoke in the morning, it was very early—much earlier than you usually woke. You slept fitfully, perhaps because of the criminal you had sleeping on your couch. When you woke up, you felt just as tired as when you fell asleep, but you dragged yourself out of bed anyway in case Lovino was an early riser and needed anything.

You dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans and went to the living room, but Lovino wasn't there. In the place where he slept, you found a farewell scrawled on a Sticky Note. _Thanks for patching me up. I owe you one. I thought I should probably clear out before you had enough to do with it to get in trouble, so…yeah. I guess that's it? –Lovino_

You were unsure of how to feel. Half of you was grateful that he was gone, taking with him any guilt that could be leveled on you, not to mention how irritating you found him. But for some reason, the other half of you was just the slightest bit…_disappointed_.

o~O~o

Life went on, of course. Your encounter with Lovino quickly faded into the back of your memory—a crazy happenstance, but nothing to worry about or dwell on. You helped out an injured gang member. It was a crazy thing to be able to claim. But you found your daydreams and idle thoughts wandering back to him more often than the oddity of your meeting could account for.

In the idle moments of your day, you found yourself thinking about him. What was he up to? Still doing illegal things to get his brother through night school? Still getting hurt? That thought pained you.

The more you thought about it, though, the more you were able to understand Lovino. Sure, he chose the wrong way to go about it, but you had to admire his dedication to helping his brother out. And he may have complained about being fixed up, but he took the pain of the slice with much less griping as most people would have.

As present as Lovino was in your thoughts, you didn't see him again. And then suddenly, one night as you were sitting at home watching TV, you heard a tap on your window.

You jumped so high in the air that you actually fell off the couch to the floor, spilling the popcorn you had in a bowl on your lap. You felt as though your heart was racing at a thousand miles an hour, but you relaxed when you saw who it was.

"Lovino!" you hissed, opening the window quickly. "What are you doing here?"

He grinned ruefully and moved the hand he had pressed to his side. It came away dark with blood. "You got a second?"

With a groan you helped him inside. "What happened to using doors like a normal person?" you demanded, running to your medicine cabinet.

"Gang member," he reminded you. "Doors aren't always good for me."

You returned, wadded up a fistful of gauze, and pressed it to the wound to staunch the bleeding. "What happened this time?"

He shrugged. "Same old, same old."

You shook your head. "You're going to get shot one of these days," you reminded him. "I can help if you get knifed, but not if you get shot."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, but he smiled.

It wasn't until you'd gone to bed, leaving Lovino to sleep on the couch again, that you realized that he never even had to ask to come inside. Nor did you hesitate to help him, nor did you consider the fact that you spoke to him as though you'd known each other forever. With Lovino, some things just didn't need to be said—you simply _knew_. And you knew that if he never tapped on your window again, it would just be impossible for you to bear.

o~O~o

Lovino didn't come often, at first. He'd show up at your door or your window, bleeding, waiting to be patched up. You never questioned it. You never refused. You chastised him about being in a gang, and he waved you off, and he spent the night on your couch. It was a routine, albeit a sporadic one.

And then one night he showed up unhurt. It was a bit of a shock for you.

"Where are you hurt?" you asked, looking him over quizzically. "I don't see any blood."

He scratched the back of his head, averting his amber eyes. "Well… I'm not. I just wanted to come and see—" Reddening, he cut himself off. "I needed a place to crash, okay? And if you have food I'll take that too."

Masking your surprise, you took him inside and fed him. He complained about your food, as always. You snapped, "Fine, then, why don't you do it?"

"Fine!" He grabs the tomato you had been dicing and he had been critiquing. "I will!"

He did, and it turned out much better than anything you'd ever made. When you took the first bite, your eyes widened.

He grinned smugly. "I know."

"Wow!" you exclaimed, before hurriedly taking another bite. "This is amazing, Lovino! How come you aren't the one in cooking school?"

"Feliciano cooks better than I do," he admitted sullenly, glowering at the floor as if it had forced the confession out of him.

"I can't believe that!" You eagerly tucked in, and he smiled at your enthusiasm.

The pair of you ate in relative quiet—Lovino didn't talk much, unless he was yelling. Then he seemed to have a surprising number of choice things to say.

"You have pasta sauce on your chin," he said disapprovingly.

"Oh, sorry," you said, and took a swipe at your lips with a napkin. "Did I get it?"

He sighed. "Here, let me." Leaning across the table, he dabbed at your face, a little harshly—but then, everything about Lovino was harsh. Still, it was the most tender thing you'd ever seen him do. Apparently he realized it too, because his rubbing slowed. Blushing, he whisked his hand back and cleared his throat. "You should go check that out in the mirror," he said gruffly.

"Um, okay." You escaped to the bathroom and cleaned your face, then came back to the table. Lovino was gone. He always vanished like that, before you could wake up, just when you stepped out of the room. He hadn't left a note this time, but you knew he'd be back.

o~O~o

The times Lovino actually needed an injury treated came fewer and fewer. More and more he simply came to eat dinner with you and sleep on your couch, or simply to sit on your porch rail, balancing on the edge of your property for an hour and then leaving without ever coming inside. He taught you a bit of his culinary knowledge, and you kept getting on his case every time he showed up with so much as a scratch, much less when it was a stab wound or a muscle bruise.

One night you were sitting on your porch, reading by the watery yellow light of the naked bulb, when you heard a familiar rustle in the bushes lining your porch.

"Lovino?"

"_Ciao_," he said weakly. The tone of his voice concerned you—but when he stepped into the pool of light cast by the bulb, you bolted to your feet in horror, letting the book drop heedlessly to the floor.

"Lovino!" you cried, and tears sprung to your eyes. He looked like he'd been hit by a bus—covered with bruises and small cuts, with a swollen, cut lip and a crooked nose. "Oh no! What happened?"

He laughed and swiped away a trickle of blood from his lip. "Got into a fight. What else is new?"

You wanted to cry, but you had to hold up long enough to help him. You got him inside and set him on his couch, then ran to your medicine cabinet. He spat a tooth into his hand and grimaced at the pearly white rectangle in the pool of crimson saliva on his hand. "Nice."

Handing him a cotton ball for the gap where his tooth had been, you set to work on the rest of him. You spread peroxide and ointment on his cuts, and bandaged any serious slices. You were unsure of how to handle the broken nose, however, and told him as much.

He shrugged. "Got a mirror?"

You brought it to him and held it up for him. Positioning his hands on either side of his nose, he twisted it back into place with a crack that made you want to vomit up everything you'd ever eaten.

"That's all I can do," you said, trying to control your stomach as you packed up your medicine. "I wish I could do more." You wished there was an eraser for his bruises—no, you wished you were a doctor. That would have made your lives so much easier.

You sat with Lovino until he fell asleep. You just couldn't bear to leave him. When he was asleep, he looked younger, like a child beaten up by bullies. _At least he didn't get shot_, you think ruefully.

By the time you got to bed, it was late, but you still couldn't sleep; you couldn't stop hearing the crack of bone and cartilage sliding back into place. You knew Lovino would be in pain when he awoke—and for once, you wanted to be able to see him off in the morning.

o~O~o

When you woke up, your eyes snapped to the clock. It read 10:04.

_No!_ you thought with despair. Surely you missed Lovino.

To your shock, he was still there, waiting for you. He was flipping through the channels on your TV, his tongue probing the space where his missing tooth had been.

"Hey," he said in his usual careless fashion. He turned off the TV and stood. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Your voice was tight. He never said goodbye. "What for?"

He took two long strides and, before you could react, kissed you.

It had to have been the worst kiss ever. His lips were still split and swollen, making the taste of blood explode on your tongue, and he was rough despite his injuries. But you'd never received a kiss that made you happier.

"Bye," he said while you were still dazed, and vanished out the door.

When the door shut behind him you wanted to cry. Before, he'd never said goodbye, so there was always the guarantee that he would return—he had to. But why would he say goodbye like that, with all that emotion, if he intended to come back again?

o~O~o

Just as you dreaded, you didn't see Lovino again.

You waited for weeks. Not a sign. You didn't know his phone number or email—always before this, he had come to you. Not this time. No matter how late you left the porch light on, or how many pasta dishes you cooked, Lovino never came back.

The first time you cried about it, you were surprised with yourself. You hadn't realized the depth of your affection for him. After the first time, you cried more often. You missed him. The first few weeks were mechanical—he'd come back, he always came back. When he didn't, you began to fall apart. Oh, your daily life wasn't affected—but your heart was in constant pain without him. You hadn't realized how much you depended on his sporadic visits until they stopped.

Angrily, you punched the power button on your remote control and turned off the sappy romantic comedy you'd been watching. Lately, that had hit a little too close to home. Every time you watched a kiss on TV or caught a glimpse of one when you were running errands, you could almost feel that crappy goodbye kiss Lovino had given you. Now it was a punch to your mangled heart.

When the doorbell rang, your heart leaped through your throat trying to get to the door. Who could be calling this late but _him_?

You flung the door open to find—Lovino's brother.

Even though you'd never met him, you knew instantly who it was. The pair of them were nearly identical. The only things that set them apart were the slight difference in their hair colors—this brother's hair was lighter—and, contrary to Lovino's perpetually sullen expression, this brother wore a vacant yet cheerful face. The two of them even had identical curls springing from their heads.

You still couldn't help but feel disappointed. "Oh. Hello."

"Hiya!" he said cheerfully, extending a hand to shake. "My name's Feliciano Vargas! I'm—"

"Lovino's brother?" You shook his hand. "Nice to finally meet you."

"You too!" he cried, pumping your hand up and down vigorously. "_Fratello_ talks about you all the time! You're even prettier than he said!"

Heat flooded your cheeks. _Lovino_ had called you pretty? He was the last person to give compliments. Which only made you more pleased to hear it.

"How is he?" you asked, trying to hide your wistfulness.

Feliciano grinned widely. "Well, that's what I'm here to tell ya, ve~!" He skipped past you inside. "Can I sit down?"

_They really are alike_, you thought with a smirk as you gestured to the couch. "Sure."

He bounced over to the couch and sat down. "Well, _Fratello_ told me not to come here, but I think it was mean of him to leave and not tell you anything," he explained. "He said he wasn't going to come back until he was a man you could be proud to have by your side."

Your heart thudded painfully. "He…what?"

"He quit his gang!" Feliciano announced cheerfully. "That night he came here all hurt, he had quit! They beat him up for leaving, but he walked away and didn't look back!" He smiled widely.

You stared at him, stupefied. "I can't believe it… How is he getting you through school?"

"Ve~? He got a job, of course!" Feliciano clapped. "I'm so proud. He works so hard to help me out."

"Where?" Your heart felt tight, near to bursting with the emotion you tried to hold back. "Can you tell me where he's working?"

He considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Okay! _Fratello_ might get a little mad, but we don't have to tell him that you know!" Leaning in, he whispered conspiratorially, "He's working at that Italian café down the street. He helps the chef out and waits tables!"

"Thank you!" On impulse, you hugged Feliciano tightly. "Thank you so much!"

He hugged you back. "Ve~! Anything for my _Fratello_'s _amore_!"

o~O~o

The next evening, you went to the café after work, just a teensy bit nervous. What if Lovino really didn't want to see you? It didn't matter—you had to see him. Even if he told you to leave, you had to see him whole and in his new environment. You wouldn't be able to rest knowing he was so close and not seeing him at least once.

You waited for someone to come wait on you, praying it would be Lovino. Luckily, when someone ducked out of the kitchen towards your table, you caught a glimpse of dark red hair with a very familiar curl.

Occupied with brushing flour off his black apron as he hurried from the kitchen, Lovino didn't see you until he was halfway to your table. When he looked up and realized who was at the table, he froze.

You stood up, secretly drinking in the sight of him. He looks healthier and happier than you'd ever seen him, with a glow to his skin and not a trace of dull defeat in his eyes. "Lovino…"

He ignored you and glanced over his shoulder towards the kitchen, barking something in Italian. Tugging the ties of his apron with a vicious scowl, he jerked the garment over his head and tossed it across a chair. "Come with me," he growled.

Helplessly, you followed. He led you out the door and around to the side of the building.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, stopping but not turning to look at you. His shoulders were tense.

"I wanted to see you," you responded softly. "I… You left so suddenly… I missed you."

The tightness of his stance lessened a fraction. "How did you know I was here?" he sighed.

"Feliciano dropped by."

He swore. "That moron. Remind me to kill him later."

"You shouldn't be angry with him," you said. "I was the one who asked him to tell me."

"He shouldn't have told you anyway," he snapped, finally turning to look at you. "I told him I didn't want to see you!" His eyes were hot with anger.

That stung like a slap. You averted your eyes, hoping he wouldn't see the hurt in them. "I'm sorry. If that's how you feel then I'll just go."

"Oh, _santo_ _Dio_," he moaned. "No. It isn't like that." His rough, callused hand cupped your chin. "Look at me." You didn't obey—you were too afraid that he'd see the tear at the corner of your eye. "I didn't want to see you _yet_. But now that you're here…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "You could…stay…awhile… If you wanted to, that is."

Finally you looked up. Lovino was avoiding your gaze, blushing. When you put your arms around him he hugged you back, though.

"Why wouldn't you see me?" you asked into his chest. "You shouldn't just kiss a girl and vanish like that."

His grip on you tightened. "Okay, I'll admit that was bad."

You laughed a little. "Just a teensy bit."

His face lowered into your hair, and you felt the slightest pressure—his lips? "I didn't want to see you until I'd made something of myself," he whispered. "You shouldn't date a thug."

Your heart skipped, then floated. "I wouldn't have."

"What about a waiter?" he asked with a slight cough.

"Maybe." You looked up at him and grinned. "Just maybe."

"I don't like maybes," he grumbled.

"How about this for an answer?" You got up on your tiptoes and kissed him.

This kiss was everything your first kiss should have been. Now there was no trace of blood or injury between you, and the desperation of your long separation made the contact as hungry and hesitant as a first kiss. Because he was Italian, your mouth bloomed open under pressure from his.

"Oh!" Your eyes flew wide suddenly, and you broke away and began laughing uproariously.

"What?" he asked defensively, tightening his grip on your waist. He blushed vividly red, which only made you laugh harder.

"Your tooth!" you cried, announcing the discovery your tongue had made exploring his mouth. "It's still missing!"

"Well, yeah," he mumbled defensively, turning his head. "Adult teeth don't grow back like that."

You hugged him hard. "Lovino, I love you," you announced suddenly, and you meant it with every fiber of your being.

"Really?" He sounded shocked.

"Really." You kissed his cheek and grinned at him. "What do you say to that?"

"_T-ti amo_," he managed, flushing furiously.

"Good." The two of you walked back into the café hand-in-hand under the neon light of his future, a future you'd laid out before a thug who'd never considered being anything else before he fell in love.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Haha I just love the line, "Because he's Italian." Cuz Italians are all passionate and make-outy :P Okay nevermind maybe that was just me.<strong>

**I'm working very dilligently on prompts now that I have time to, but it seems like a lot of people want stuff :P If it takes a while, I sincerely apologize, but I AM going in order now so HUZZAH! Getting prompts out is also being lowered on my priority list because I have two other fics rolling right now, a GerIta version of The Little Mermaid and a FrancexJoan of Arc fic. But it's not like I have much to do this summer but write so I'm doing my best to get both done! :D Please be sure to check those two fics out once I get them up :)**


	18. Beauty and the Geek

**AN: Hello everyone! I wish to apologize for my long absence-I was on vacation! I went to Florida :P I know. You're all jealous fangirls, and I'm the happiest America fangirl alive. Haha just kidding! I wear a chastity ring and everything, so I'm basically just playing the jealously card :P I was also in Oklahoma for a week, which is a state none of you non-Americans have ever heard of. It's right on top of Texas and I went to church camp there. It was an awesome and very moving experience.**

**However I have returned, and fanficking will resume!**

**Prompt: Can you do a fem!Italy and Germany? (from Luxembourg the Amazing)**

* * *

><p>Feliciana skipped by Ludwig's bench. And didn't notice him, as always.<p>

As always, he noticed her. It was slightly impossible not to. She was the most adorable, popular girl in the school—she tended to draw eyes, with her cute smile and eye-catching copper hair. The miniskirt of her cheerleading uniform helped too. Everyone loved Feliciana, regardless of year, intelligence, or level of indifference towards popularity. Even sulky loners like Arthur found it hard to hate such a sweet, bubbly, innocent girl.

She wasn't short on men who crushed on her, either. Ludwig was one of them, and probably the one with the least chance of ever attracting her attention.

The German couldn't remember when he'd fallen in love with Feliciana, but he thought it had to have been on his first day of school. They were both freshmen, but she had already gained some popularity due to the cheerleading squad's summer practices. Whereas he was totally lost in his new school, she skipped cheerfully down the hallways, always sure of where she was going—and if she wasn't, confident that somebody would be nice enough to show her the way. Ludwig wasn't as outgoing, and he was too intimidated by the upperclassmen to ask directions. So, of course, he got hopelessly lost.

Cowering against the lockers, Ludwig buried his nose in the map of the school, desperately searching for something familiar he could latch onto. Nothing came. Frustration mounted in him; he wanted to crumple the map and toss his books to the floor and just go home, pull the covers over his head, and go back to sleep. Today had been a nightmare already, between locker trouble, getting battered mercilessly like a leaf in a mighty river by the students in the main hallway, and arriving at the wrong class twice.

"Can I help you?" asked a voice much too cheery to fit his mood.

He looked up and into the amber eyes of a goddess, created for the sole purpose of making teenage boys drool. With innocent eyes, a sweet face, curves to make his mouth go dry, and a warm grin on her plump pink lips, she was the most gorgeous specimen of femininity he had ever laid eyes on.

"Uh—I," he stuttered, blinking hard behind his horn-rimmed black glasses. "What?"

She giggled. "You look lost," she clarified. "Do you need help?"

"Please," he said gratefully. "I need to find this room." He pointed to its number on his schedule.

"Oh, that's just around the corner!" she said happily. "I'll show you the way!"

She led him to the classroom, bouncing down the hallway at a pace he had to speedwalk to keep up with. When they arrived, she gestured grandly to the door and announced, "Ta-da!"

"Thanks," he said. "It was nice of you to help me…" He trailed off when he realized he still didn't know this scintillating stranger's name.

"Feliciana Vargas!" She grinned. "Who are you?"

"Ludwig Beilshmidt," he replied. "Thanks again."

"You're welcome! Well, see ya around!" And she skipped off down the hallway, leaving him to stare after, already completely head-over-heels.

As the weeks passed, Ludwig only fell for her more. They didn't share any classes, but whenever she saw him in the hallways she gave him a smile and a wave. Only, oftentimes, she didn't see him. Despite his height and broad shoulders, Ludwig was the type of guy who managed to avoid notice in plain sight. His powerful build was wasted with a slight hunch, as if he expected a blow to nail him square between the shoulders at any second, and his piercing blue eyes were hidden behind his clunky glasses. He faded, and she shone. As her star rose, he receded further into shadow.

Still, he loved her from afar. He didn't begrudge her all the men who pursued her—guys more popular and talented than he was, football players and the future valedictorian and upperclassmen as well—because he thought she enjoyed the admiration. His admiration was silent, and he knew it just wouldn't be enough for her. She was the homecoming queen, and he was the wallflower. They didn't exist on the same social plane. In fact, they existed on parallel planes—they would never intersect, no matter what. He didn't mind just watching, as long as he got to see her smile. If she was still smiling, then a star-crossed love was okay with him.

As little as Ludwig got along with most other students, he was friends with all the teachers, especially the librarian. She let him sit in the library long past when all the other students had been chased out at closing time, and he was grateful for that. The library window looked out on the football field where the cheerleaders practiced. Of course, his brother was down there too, making a total nuisance of himself like always with his friends from the football team, but Ludwig could ignore him.

One day as Ludwig half-read, half-watched the football field, he witnessed a fight between Feliciana and her boyfriend. She had been dating Alfred, the quarterback, but by the explosive looks of their confrontation, that was over with now. Ludwig wanted to shout and cheer, but at the same time he felt bad. Feliciana would be heartbroken.

She ran off the field in tears. Alfred watched her, looking suddenly unsure, but he didn't make a step to follow.

Ludwig started to turn back to his work now that Feliciana was gone and the field had lost any interest it held for him. He jumped when the library door crashed open, admitting a sobbing Feliciana. He heard her speaking to the librarian.

"Of course you can stay here, dearie," the gray-haired old woman said consolingly. "Stay as long as you like."

"_Grazie_," Feliciana sniffled. "I just need some space from him for a while."

"I understand."

The crying Italian rushed to the back of the library, obviously thinking she would be alone; she stopped dead when she noticed Ludwig.

Trying not to blush, he rose abruptly, shoving his papers into a slipshod pile. "Uh, I was just leaving…"

"No, it's fine," she sniffled. "Ludwig, right?"

His heart leaped in his chest. She remembered! "Y-yeah."

"Can I sit with you?" When he nodded mutely, struck too dumb to formulate a verbal response, she collapsed into the chair beside him and started sobbing again.

Tentatively, he sat back down and gave her back an awkward pat. _Her hair is so soft,_ he thought wonderingly as his pat brought his hand down on the copper strands trailing down her spine.

After a while, Feliciana quieted. Once she'd gotten her cry out, she sat up, rubbing smeared mascara and eyeliner from her swollen red eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm probably a mess." She forced a laugh.

"No, no, you look great," Ludwig responded. After the words came out he bit his tongue. _Are you stupid?_ he hissed at himself. But it was true. Feliciana somehow managed to make puffy red eyes and a quivering chin look cute.

She looked like she appreciated it, though. "Aww, Ludwig, you're so sweet!"

His heart stuttered. "Th-thanks."

Still swiping at her eyes, Feliciana smiled at him and looked at the homework spread in front of him. "Geometry?" He nodded. She sighed. "I just can't understand that class. But I bet you do! You look really smart!"

Ludwig blushed. _Translation: you look like a nerd with your slicked-back hair and glasses. _"I don't know about that, but I do pretty well in Geometry."

"Could you help me?" she asked, perking up. "My grades have been dropping pretty bad because of football season…"

"Oh! Um, sure! Yeah, I could do that." He felt like he was about to float out of his chair. "What is it that you need help with?"

"Everything, really." She giggled, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

"Well, I'll just go over the basics again, then. This postulate here states that…"

In numbers and figures, Ludwig was home. He was awkward and clumsy in the real world, especially when Feliciana was around, but math was effortless. Even Feliciana's presence seemed to melt away as the angles and lines of geometry poured from the tip of his pencil. He wanted to be an engineer when he grew up, or maybe an architect—something he could work with numbers all the time. Math had set rules. It wasn't like life, when everything you knew could change. Numbers never failed, and they never lied. They were easier to deal with than people.

Suddenly he realized that he'd been rambling and his cheeks heated. "Oh, sorry. Did you get all that?"

"Yeah!" Feliciana looked surprised by the fact that she understood. "You make it much easier to understand than my teacher does."

"Thanks." He coughed self-consciously. "It's my favorite subject," he ventured.

"Really? That's wonderful! I wish I could be as smart as you are, Ludwig!" The compliment made him feel warm inside. Suddenly Feliciana's expression grew worried, as though she'd remembered something she'd forgotten, and she pulled her phone out of her pocket. When she saw the time, she gasped. "Oh, I lost track of time! I gotta go meet my sister and my grandpa for dinner!" She stood up quickly and pulled her backpack over one shoulder. "Bye, Ludwig! _Grazie_ for helping me out!"

And just like that, she was gone. Ludwig had to pinch himself, just to make sure that the whole thing had actually happened.

o~O~o

He had to pinch himself again when she showed up the next day, smiling at him. "Do you think you could help me with geometry again?" she asked. "I'm really not good in that class but you can help me do good, right?"

"O-of course," he stuttered.

And that's how he became Feliciana's tutor. A week had passed, two weeks, and he finally started believing that it wasn't a dream. Every day he got a little more comfortable around her. Now he didn't keep his eyes glued to his paper—he was able to steal glances at her, at her coppery hair and breathtaking smile. Whenever his hand brushed hers he still jerked back and blushed, but each time the reaction became slower and slower. And she never pulled away first, he noticed. It was always him who was afraid of the brush of their skin. Why was that? What did he have to be scared of?

_It's rejection_, he decided. _It's going so well, and I don't want to mess anything up by being stupid._

So he still pulled away first, because he was terrified that a time would come when she would jerk back before he could, and he would know for sure that she didn't want his touch.

The air grew colder, and football season was in full swing. Feliciana and her fellow cheerleaders spent hours tumbling across the field, cheering on their team. The icy distance between Feliciana and Alfred that had been in place since their breakup was not thawed by the spirit of the season, and for that Ludwig was glad.

Homecoming was just around the corner, though, and it made Ludwig a little uncomfortable. Feliciana was the most eligible bachelorette in the grade, and even among many of the upperclassmen; she was approached time and time again by men hoping to score a date to the dance with her. Not that Ludwig was bothered by that—she turned them all down, for some reason—it was just that he wanted to have as much nerve as they did.

But still, there was the fact that she'd turned everyone down so far. That had to mean that she had someone she liked, or maybe she wasn't over Alfred yet.

If he was honest, he knew he was just coming up with excuses. He was just plain terrified of asking her out.

Absorbed in these thoughts, Ludwig sat staring blankly at a page of homework as he waited for Feliciana in the library. Her cheer practice should be over soon, but he was slightly dreading her return. As homecoming drew nearer, every time he saw her he felt like he should ask her out, and that conviction along with his fear made for an uneasy combination. The two couldn't coexist—like oil and water they kept repelling each other, and he knew eventually one would have to be forced out completely.

"Ludwig!" A bolt of lightning shot down his spine as he felt Feliciana throw her arms around his neck from behind and shout in his ear. "Guess what?"

"Um…!" Ludwig sat ramrod straight and stiff as a post, and a hot blush stained his cheeks red. "What?"

"I got an A on my Geometry test!" Her arms tightened as she giggled. "I can't believe it!"

"Th-that's great," he said, internally cursing himself for stuttering.

"You okay?" she inquired, craning her neck to look at his face.

He averted his eyes. "I'm fine," he said. He prayed to all the gods he could name that his voice wouldn't chose now to shoot back to the treble he'd almost grown out of.

Luckily, Feliciana was pretty easy to lie to. "Okay!" She danced over to her chair and sat down, dumping her cheer bag at her feet. "I'm so happy!" she cried, drumming her heels on her chair like a child.

"Feliciana, do you like somebody?" Ludwig blurted before he thought better of it. When he realized what he'd said, his blush deepened and his eyes flew wide. "I mean, you don't have to tell me…"

Feliciana laughed and waved her hand. "No, it's okay! We're friends, right?"

_Ouch. The F word._ It took all Ludwig had not to wince. "Sure," he choked.

"I do like somebody," she said, winking. "But I can't tell you who he is."

"Fair enough." He felt like his heart had just gone through a meat grinder, but he forced a smile. "So are you waiting for him to ask you to homecoming?"

"Yep!" She laughed slightly. "But I don't think he will. I don't think he knows I like him."

As little as he wanted to, he forced himself to say, "Then why don't you tell him? Guys are a little oblivious. They might never know if you don't make it obvious."

Feliciana grinned a little, without much humor. "I don't know… He's so serious and focused all the time, so I don't know if he even wants a girlfriend. I think I'm a little too crazy for him."

"Well, I don't know all the details," he said. That was definitely possible. "But I think that keeping your feelings inside never accomplishes anything." Mentally he was kicking himself for being such a hypocrite. But he simply wasn't as brave as Feliciana.

For some reason, Feliciana looked very vulnerable all of a sudden. "You really think so?"

"I do." Gathering his courage, he added, "Feliciana, I—"

Her lips crashed down on his, making his words trail off in a very embarrassing half-strangled squeak. Eyes wide open in shock stared into hers, open to gauge his reaction.

She pulled away, her cheeks flaming like a rosy sunset. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just…" Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. "I'm so sorry." She stood so abruptly that her chair toppled over and ran out, sobbing.

"Feliciana!" Without thought he took off after her. She was fast and she had a head start, but his strides were longer than hers, so he managed to catch up by the time she reached the atrium. "Feliciana!" He caught her hand and yanked her to a stop.

She was crying, still somehow managing to look cute with her puffy red eyes. "Ludwig, I… You told me not to keep it to myself, and… I'm sorry, but I love you—"

His lips cut off her rambling. Her breath hitched with surprise as he pinned her to him with his arms around her waist and kissed her hard, almost afraid to believe this could be real. Hesitantly, she raised her hands to frame his face and met his kiss with lips salty with her tears. Slight gasps broke the contact every so often as she sniffled, but they kissed with the hunger and fervor of a love they had never dreamed would come to reality.

When Feliciana broke the kiss, gasping for air, Ludwig felt slightly dizzy with giddy euphoria. He lowered his forehead to rest on her shoulder, panting and smiling.

"So… You like me back?" asked Feliciana hopefully, tangling the fingers of one hand into the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Yes, Feliciana," he responded, raising his head to look at her. "I love you. I've always loved you." He hesitated. "You… You're sure about this?"

"Of course, silly!" She pecked him on the nose. "If you are!"

He flushed furiously red. "So then, um. Homecoming?"

She laughed delightedly. "Of course! I was just waiting for you to ask me!"

With a relieved sigh, he said, "Well, that was a lot more painless than I expected. At least until Alfred gets his hands on me."

She laughed. "I won't let him kill you, don't worry."

Stealing another quick kiss, he grinned slightly. "I don't know… I'm feeling like I'm in heaven already."

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>**I would like to use this author's note to ask everyone to please check out some other fics of mine ^^ I love my readers of this fic the most because, even though this fic isn't as popular as others of mine, I get so many reviews and it makes me so happy. I'd love to see that happen for some of my other stuff as well, so if you get a chance please give them a little look-see!**

**Until next time, my loves!**

**PS: EVERYONE NEEDS TO GO SEE SPIDERMAN. LIKE, NOW. IT WAS SO GOOD. SOOOO GOOOOOOOD**


	19. Ice Block

**AN: Welcome back, my beloved readers! I am posting this fic today in celebration of recieving my own personal copy of World Series Season 2~~~ With the cute bandana :D You're all jealous. Oh, and this is also in celebration of recieving 100 reviews! You guys are the best :') I'm so grateful to have such a loyal and loving following for this story!**

**I have never attempted RoChu before, just as a disclaimer. I always have a hard time with Russia, as he is my least favorite character and I dislike him xD Hopefully I pulled it off!**

**Oh, and in case nobody gets this, this fic is set right after WW2 when Russia became Communist. The boss China is referring to is Lenin, the man who created Russia's particular brand of Communism. The Communism China would later adopt (and still retains to this day) isn't as focused on the small working man as Russia's was. Russian Communism focused more on equality among men, while China's forces everyone to work to advance society as a whole.**

**Prompt: fem!China and Russia (:3 Ve~ I love zis pairink) (from Vulcanblood)**

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><p>China huffed a sigh and glared at the intruder sitting on one of the tasseled throw pillows in her dining room. The sad part was, she wasn't actually surprised to find him there. "What are you doing here…<em>again<em>?"

Russia cocked his head to the side quizzically. "I came for dinner, of course. What are we having?"

Growling under her breath, China stomped past her unwanted visitor into the kitchen. "I'm not making you dinner!"

"Why not? I'm hungry and your food is tasty." Russia smiled that creepily empty smile of his. "Make me some."

"No!" China slammed the sliding door shut. _Darn him! That psycho! And I was hoping to make dumplings tonight… But I don't want to cook for him _again_!_

Russia was China's neighbor to the north. They'd never gotten along poorly, per se, but they hadn't been either allies or enemies. Occasionally a nomadic tribe from his home would invade hers, but other than that, they didn't interact much.

And then China had turned her back for _one second_ to deal with Japan's idiotic imperialist phase, and Russia had started popping up every other night, invading her house and eating her food and just generally being a terror. She tried to ignore him and refuse to feed him, and he just raided her leftovers. So now whenever Russia showed up, China just went hungry out of stubborn refusal to allow him to eat something she made.

Russia opened the door slightly. "China?"

"Go away!" she snapped. "No one wants you around, you creep!"

"Don't be like that," he said. His creepy smile never came off his face. "I just want some food."

"I have better things to do than feed you!" she snapped. "Make something on your own!"

Russia shrugged. "If you say so."

China watched, openmouthed, as Russia made himself at home in her kitchen and started cooking some Russian monstrosity that could never compare to her delicious cooking.

With a huff, she stomped to the stove and shoved him out of the way, brandishing a wok threateningly. "Get out of my kitchen! I'll make you something, okay? Just sit over there and be quiet while I do!"

"Okay," he said complacently, and went to sit down on a throw pillow as if he'd planned the whole thing.

China grumbled to herself as she cooked. Who did he think he was? She was the Middle Kingdom, for crying out loud! Her boss was a _dragon_! What did he have? Some balding peasant-bootlicker, that's who!

She slapped the bowl of food down in front of him unceremoniously, for once not caring one bit about the damage to her table or tableware, and stabbed a pair of chopsticks into it. "Enjoy," she snapped, and stomped off to the kitchen to get her own food.

They ate in a silence that was considered icy for China's part, but Russia probably found it companionable. Psycho. He had absolutely no grip on normal human emotions. That was one of the principal reasons that China and Russia did not get along. He was as cold and unfeeling as his land, and China was as passionate as they came.

"Ah," sighed Russia, laying down his chopsticks and patting his stomach contentedly. "That was very tasty." He looked up at China with unerring violet eyes. "Now, down to business. I think we should become one, da?"

Exhibit A of Russia's complete inability to relate to people.

"What?" China spluttered furiously. "Is this some sort of joke?"

Russia shook his head. "No joke. You want to, da?"

"NO!" she growled, standing so abruptly that the table rocked dangerously. "Why in the world would I submit myself to a freak like you! Now get off my property before I call someone to remove you!"

The complacent smile never left his face. He stood and said calmly, "Okay. See you next time!"

"THERE WON'T BE A NEXT TIME!"

o~O~o

"Hello, China, I'm here for dinner agai—"

China slammed the door in Russia's smiling face.

"Okay. Maybe tomorrow then."

o~O~o

China had managed to successfully evade Russia for some time now, but she knew that her freedom from him was perilously close to ending. The world meeting was coming up, and she could not hope to avoid him there.

"China!"

She groaned and buried her face in her forearms as Russia took the seat beside her. She'd known it was a bad idea to sit down first. If she did, then he could find her and sit next to her. But she'd wanted to claim a seat by the door, just in case. Sometimes the lunacy of sticking every nation in the world in one room together was just too much to bear.

And the lunacy would be ten times worse with Russia in the seat next to her. He and America were somehow _still_ going at it after all this time, and their arguments had taken center stage at these meetings. Well, an argument on America's side. Russia simply stated the facts as he saw them and refused to be budged, frustrating America to no end.

The meeting started, facilitated as usual by Germany. China tried to ignore the creepy aura emanating from the nation beside her and just generally shut out the chaos that only escalated during the meeting.

To occupy herself, China tore into the complimentary snacks they were given to help them survive the meeting. Unfortunately, those were gone too quickly. She was hungry—she'd overslept, and hadn't had time to eat in her rush to catch her flight here. She was too poor and stingy to buy overpriced airline food when she knew that there would be free snacks at the meeting, but she hadn't anticipated there being so little to be had.

Her stomach gurgled unhappily, pleading for more. She pressed a hand to her belly to silence it, hoping no one overheard.

A packet landed in front of China. She looked in astonishment at Russia.

"I do not care for these kinds of things," he said simply. "I much prefer your food, but if you are hungry you should eat it."

"Oh… Um, thanks, Russia." Glancing at him every so often, half-expecting him to say, "Only joking!" and rip the bag from her hands, she opened and ate Russia's food.

It was the first nice thing she'd ever seen him do. Russia snatched up whatever was placed before him and often took what was not anyway—she'd never even heard of him giving something away, even something as trivial as a few complimentary snacks.

o~O~o

So the next time Russia showed up at her door asking for dinner, she let him inside.

She cooked in silence, not yelling as she usually did. This time he was her guest, not an unwanted nuisance, and Easterners knew how to do hospitality much better than Westerners could ever claim.

When she placed the food before him, Russia smiled at her. "Thank you," he said, and began to eat. He was actually getting to be pretty handy with chopsticks.

A shock traveled through China. Was it…could it be? His normally empty smile…she'd seen something in it. He'd actually looked happy at her treatment of him. Maybe this tumbling avalanche of a country had feelings after all.

Of course, that caused China to feel a little guilty. She'd treated him pretty badly before, but she'd been operating on the assumption that he simply didn't care either way. Could it be possible?

"China," Russia said, setting down his bowl and chopsticks for a moment, "You're very pretty."

Another gush of shock. "_What_?" Where had that come from?

He cocked his head, confused at her lack of understanding. "I said you're pretty. That color looks nice on you."

China looked down at her red traditional robe tied with a golden sash, outlined with gold cord and embroidered with gold-and-silver flowers. "Um. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Russia picked up his bowl and started to eat again as if nothing had happened.

The silence had become very awkward as far as China was concerned. She stood abruptly.

"I'm going to go wash the dishes," she said, already turned towards the kitchen. She didn't want to look at Russia's face. Finding emotion there was somehow even more frightening than finding none, and frankly, after that last comment, she was terrified of what she might find if she explored too far into Russia's ice block of a heart.

A hand caught her wrist in a firm grip. "China."

Slowly, she turned to face him. "What do you want?"

"I want to become one with you," he said simply. "Say you will."

"No!" she cried indignantly. "Why would I do that? That's the most preposterous thing I've ever—"

China was silenced by Russia's lips descending on hers.

Oh.

That was the flicker she'd seen, the thing she'd been afraid to find in his face. This was the only emotion she'd ever seen him show, and it was for her.

"Hey!" she cried, dislodging his lips. His grip on her did not loosen though, and she struggled futilely against it. "This is harassment! Get off!"

"No." One of his arms pinned her waist to his body, pressing every line of her against every line of him, and the other grasped the nape of her neck, guiding her face to his once more.

China kicked and threw her fists, but Russia was a stone, a statue. He seemed not to feel her blows at all—but had a statue ever had lips so soft, so gentle? She didn't realize her flying fists and feet had begun to slow until they stopped, and she didn't realize that she was enjoying his kiss until she was already kissing him back.

Only when she began to respond did Russia release her, loosening his grip on her waist and letting the hand that had secured her face to his slide down to her shoulders. But by then the damage was done—China no longer wanted to let go, and she clung to him even when she was no longer bound to do so.

"Mmm," she sighed contentedly against his lips.

That sound, coming from _her_ of all people, snapped her back to reality._ What am I doing?_ She wasn't one of Japan's flipskirt geishas! What in the world was she doing, kissing a man she could have sworn up and down that she hated?

"Ah!" She reared backwards out of Russia's arms so quickly that she fell to the floor. "What the heck was that, Russia?"

"I could ask you the same question," he said with an ironic grin as he sat down on the floor at her feet. "You kiss very well."

"Ahh!" China covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could block out the truth of what she'd done. _He kisses well too, for such a stupid ice block… No! Shut up, brain!_

The touch of a hand at her ankle snapped her back to reality. "What are you doing?" she asked. But for some reason, she didn't jerk her foot away.

"I don't want your land," he said. "We could become one some other way." This he followed with his normal childishly innocent grin.

"You've got to be kidding me! We just kissed for the first time and you're already talking about _that_?" she demanded, aghast. Westerners!

He chuckled. "You admitted it." His fingers continued to slide across her ankle.

"Get out!" she howled. "Get out of my house right now!"

Unfortunately, he didn't look miffed by the order. "Okay. I'll be back tomorrow."

"NO YOU WON'T!"

Violet eyes caught her gaze as surely as a steel trap. "You want me to come back. You know you do."

"I…" Stupid Russia! Why did he have to keep bringing up these feelings she didn't want to have? If he'd just shut up, maybe she could deny them!

"I love you, China." He wrapped his large hand around her smaller one. "Can I come over for dinner tomorrow?"

He never asked. He simply stated what he would do. Or did it, like when he'd kissed her out of the blue.

"Fine!" she snapped. "But any more of this 'becoming one' business before I say so and you're out of here!"

He grinned, although she couldn't imagine why. "Deal."

It was only after he left that she realized what she'd said. _Before I say so._ What was the matter with her? She didn't want to become one with anybody, much less that stupid Russia!

But jeez… He sure could kiss, for an ice block.

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><p><strong>AN: ...I had no idea how to make Russia romantic. Sorry DX<strong>

**Even if you're flaming, review please! I want to know how I did for my first shot at Russia in a love-centric oneshot.**


	20. Earthquake

**AN: Hello my good people! Welcome back to Your Wish Is My Command :D Please review and give me prompts!**

**I love Japan x Taiwan, and I love quake fics, so this was rather fun :D I hope I did your concept justice, gymnAlissa!**

**Prompt: JapanXTaiwan, somehow relating to the earthquake that happened in Japan. Use your own headcanon, I like other people's headcanons. :) ^^ (from gymnAlissa3111)**

* * *

><p>Taiwan sat under a willow tree in her serene garden, weaving. The gently waving branches of the tree whispered, and the small creek to her left warbled serenely. Her garden always calmed Taiwan down. It was her haven from the complex political life of her country. Although Taiwan had in recent years become an industrial force to be reckoned with, most of the world still saw her as an accessory to China—part of him! That was just ridiculous. She would never go through a communist phase like he did. Frankly, she was shocked that he hadn't grown out of that yet. That's what he got for hanging out with Russia so much. Now that she thought about it, even Russia had given up on communism already! Someone needed to slap some sense into her idiot brother.<p>

In fact, her entire adopted family was a little messed up nowadays. The Koreas were always squabbling, and Thailand, Laos, and Vietnam were still struggling to claw their way up to a decent level of industrialization. Who knew what Mongolia was up to. He was always so quiet, wrapped up in his own politics.

The only ones who really had everything together were Japan and Taiwan—and she was still behind Japan. He was really the miracle child. He'd gone from a backwards, war-torn island to an industrial and imperialist superpower in just under a century. It was almost unheard of, and had certainly never been replicated by any of his Asian siblings.

Taiwan was doing her best, though. She wanted to be like Japan. She looked up to him so much, and admired his quiet wisdom and eagerness to try new things.

But if she was honest, she would have to say that in the past few years, her affection for Japan had grown beyond that of a mentor or a big-brother figure. She found herself noticing the tenderness in his heavy-lidded brown eyes and her heart quivered like a plucked harp string whenever he smiled at her.

These feelings made her feel self-conscious, though. She knew that she wasn't on Japan's level by any stretch of the imagination—and she would not come to him as a beggar. If he made the first move, then she would gratefully accept his advances, but she would never air her feelings first. In her heart, though, she knew he would never do such a thing. He was so reserved; even if he did have feelings for her, he would never dare to speak them.

It was a hopeless situation. Neither of them would take the necessary step—both were too shy, too afraid of being vulnerable. Assuming Japan returned her affections, which she wasn't sure of either.

It was this catch-22 situation that had been driving Taiwan with more and more frequency to her garden and her loom. Weaving took so much concentration that she had little room for thought—unlike sewing or knitting, there was little that was habitual about weaving. It took a lot of focus, with how often you had to switch the colors and tighten the weaving.

Her fingers stilled on the loom as a wash of guilt and longing surged through her. She'd been avoiding Japan recently; her feelings for him had become strong enough that every time she was around him, it was a struggle to keep her mouth firmly shut on the words she could not say.

"Taiwan-chan?"

Taiwan bolted to her feet, knocking over her stool and almost upsetting her loom, and whirled to find exactly who she'd prayed she would not find.

Japan looked startled by her reaction, but it did not make him look any less serene and unruffled as usual. He looked at home here, in her soothing garden, with his cool but kind eyes and the traditional clothes of his homeland.

"Oh, Japan!" Taiwan bowed hastily, using the motion to cover up her straightening of her pink traditional dress, and he returned the gesture. "What are you doing here?"

"I apologize if I inconvenienced you, Taiwan-chan," he said, adding an additional bow for the apology, "but I had a week off and I've been using it to have a little alone time. I thought it would be appropriate if I came to see you before returning home."

"Appropriate?" What did that mean? Taiwan idly fixed the fresh pink flower tucked behind one ear.

He nodded. "Yes. I have been slightly concerned… Have you been avoiding me, Taiwan-chan?"

She felt like a lightning bolt had replaced her spinal cord. "Why would you say that?" Had that come out a little squeaky?

"Usually you sit with the Koreas and I at the world meetings," Japan explained. "Yet for the past months you have not. And at any world events you have not made courtesies to me. It is very unlike you to be impolite, Taiwan-chan," he added gently. "I knew there must be something bothering you. I thought that it would be better if I came here on my week off—not as a nation, but as your brother."

Taiwan averted her eyes to hide a wince. Brother. Of course. "If I gave that impression, I am very sorry," she said, careful to hide the hurt in her voice. "But it was unintentional and I will correct it in the future."

His brows drew together over worried eyes. He was too good at sensing the mood for comfort. "Taiwan…"

"Would you care for tea?" she asked, overriding him.

Slowly, he nodded, though obviously unwilling to be through with the conversation. "That would be nice."

Taiwan led Japan to her dining room and retreated to the kitchen to prepare the tea. She gripped the sink as she filled the teapot, her hands trembling ever so slightly.

He noticed that she was avoiding him. He'd actually noticed. That made her happy. It was stupid, but it made her happy. _You're a nation, not some silly junior high girl!_ she berated herself, but the argument was weak for some reason. Usually she was rather touchy about her nation status, since so few actually found it legitimate, but this time it had no effect. The buoyant feeling in her heart would not be quashed.

Suddenly a loud crash sounded from the other room. "Japan? Are you okay?" called Taiwan. No response. She shut off the water and went to investigate. "Japan?"

One of her antique vases lay shattered on the floor, and Japan was grasping the table it had rested on with white-knuckled fingers clenched tighter than a vise. His eyes were clouded—not his usual emotionlessness, but sightlessness as well. His entire body trembled slightly, a quivering bowstring just on the edge of snapping.

"What's wrong?" she cried, rushing to his side. "Japan? Can you hear me? Japan?"

"Unh." A strangled groan garbled from his throat. All of a sudden, his knees gave way and he dropped facedown on the floor, twitching violently yet in perfect silence at her feet.

Terror flooded her. "Japan? Answer me!" She flipped him over onto his back. His eyes were still empty, gazing at nothing—the eyes of a dead man. It was terrifying to see those eyes on her brother, her unrequited love, especially as he continued to jerk and shudder with violent convulsions.

A stream of tears flooded Taiwan's cheeks. She didn't know what to do! His hand slammed down on the pile of shattered porcelain left by the vase and came away bleeding. His foot collided painfully with the leg of the table with a sickening crunch that had to mean a broken toe, but he didn't react. He just stared without seeing as his body shuddered and twitched, possessed by some alien strength and will that Taiwan could not understand.

"Japan," she sobbed. She pounced onto him, pinning his arms and legs so he couldn't hurt himself anymore. He continued to convulse, and he was foaming at the mouth now like a rabid dog. Only he was still listless, perfectly empty even as his body swung and twitched as though a deranged puppet master was plucking carelessly at every string he could lay hands on.

It was the most terrible thing Taiwan had ever witnessed. She didn't know what to do but keep holding him down as the horrible twitching spasms refused to abate. He was stronger than she was, but she leaned her whole weight into pinning him down, desperate to keep him from being any more of a danger to himself when he was like this.

Blood ceased to trickle from his wounds, and the light faded from the sky. Slowly, his spasms stopped and his sightless eyes drifted shut. After ten minutes had passed without another convulsion, she felt safe in climbing off of him.

Was Japan okay? She gently pulled his head into her lap and stroked his sweat-slick hair. His breathing was even again, and the pulse at his neck felt regular, if a little fast. She let out a sigh of relief.

She lowered her forehead to his and let a few more tears escape. What had just happened? She had the feeling that something terrible had just occurred in his country. Nations hardly ever experienced physical trauma or illness like that except when their nation was hurt.

"Uhh." Japan began to shift on her lap—he was waking up! Taiwan jerked straight and stroked his cheek with her thumb, hoping to revive him.

His brown eyes flickered open. "Tai…wan…chan?"

"It's me," she said, a few tears dropping off the bridge of her nose onto his cheek. She brushed them away. "Are you alright?"

He blinked blearily, fighting his way out of the haze that lingered in his eyes. "What…what happened?"

"You just had a seizure," Taiwan said softly. "For the better part of three hours." Abruptly she became aware of her sore muscles, which felt leaden from all the effort it took to keep Japan pinned down as he convulsed.

He passed a hand over his eyes. "There was an earthquake," he whispered.

"Oh, no." Dismay filled her. "Japan, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can get you, for the pain…?"

"No." He gritted his teeth and sat up. "I have to…have to get home…"

"Not like this!" Taiwan caught his shoulders to keep him from rising and pulled him back down to the floor. His struggles were too weak to trouble even her sore muscles. "You can't possibly fly like this. And there won't be any airplanes going in for a while."

"Helicopter," he said through his teeth. "Taiwan. I have to."

Rarely had Taiwan ever seen so much emotion in those eyes of his. She allowed him to rise and hobbled to her feet along with him.

She helped him stand. "I understand," she said quietly. "Just…promise me you won't overextend yourself out there?"

He nodded with a slight wince as he set his injured foot on the floor. "I'll sleep on the ride there."

Taiwan sniffled and scrubbed at her suddenly watering eyes. "Good."

"Taiwan-chan…" He hesitantly reached out to wipe a tear from her cheek. "Do not cry. I am sure we will be as good as new in no time."

Before she could consider the action, Taiwan grabbed his hand. "I was so scared," she whispered.

Although he blushed at her touch, his eyes softened. "Do not worry. It is over now. Thank you for taking care of me, Taiwan-chan."

"Of course, Japan." Feeling emboldened, she reached out to touch his cheek. "Just remember that you promised not to do anything too strenuous."

He smiled softly, no hint of pain in his smile. "I will."

A shock raced through her when he turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. His face bloomed with crimson, and he flinched away. "I'm sorry."

Taiwan slowly raised his hand, which she still held, to her lips. "Don't be."

He looked shocked. "Taiwan-chan, you…"

"Shh. We don't have time now," she told him. "We need to get you a car to take you to the heliport."

He nodded, but as she was making the call to the car company he surreptitiously wound his pinkie finger around hers. When she glanced at him, startled, he was gazing the other way with a furious blush on his cheeks, but he didn't retract his hand.

"We'll talk when you're better," she assured him as he stepped into the car. "Your country needs you more than I do now."

He leaned out of the window to touch her cheek. "Thank you, Taiwan. For understanding, and for taking good care of me."

"Of course." She held his hand to her cheek, then released him. "Now go. I'll come visit when I can."

The car drove off. Taiwan felt an odd mixture of buoyancy and somberness. Japan must love her in return, but he had hard days ahead. His whole country did.

At least he would not face them alone. Taiwan would be by his side, every step of the way. For the rest of their lives, if he would allow it.

She remembered the look in his eyes when he kissed her hand. All the vulnerable hope she had felt had been reflected in his eyes, all the overwhelming emotions she was so afraid to give voice to. He felt them too.

It gave her hope that maybe a life with her would not seem like such a bad proposition to him after all.

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><p><strong>AN: I'm really hard at work, I promise. I'm actually several chapters ahead-I prefer to completely finish a fic and leave it for a week or two before I post it, so that it gets full editing and polishing. I'm SERIOUS about editing. Because of that, I actually have several full-length fics in the works that will likely be posted soon, as I'm close to finishing them. First Kiss Wins is almost done, and I'm almost to the climax of my GerIta Little Mermaid fic, so be sure to watch for those! ^^<strong>

**Oh, and I'm beta-ing now, so if you need an editor be sure to contact me!**


	21. Nothing Like Pudding on A Sunday

**AN: So, this prompt was really, really odd. XD I had a very interesting time getting all of it in, but I enjoyed the fluffness with Prussia and Canada! I just love any Canada, really :P Please review and tell me if I managed to pull it off!**

**Prompt: PrussiaxCanada. Include the phrases, "I'm bringing sexy back", "Sorry for party rocking" and "Nothing like pudding on a Sunday." It's up to you how you use those phrases. If it could include some electro music and a skateboard, that'll be great. (from The Voices Talk To Me)**

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><p>Canada banged her knuckles against the door of her boyfriend's house as hard as she could. Loud music was blasting from inside, as always—Prussia probably kept his poor neighbors from ever getting two hours of sleep side-by-side—and any less of a knock would have been completely inaudible. She sighed under her breath and cursed the day his doorbell stopped working, probably due to the fact that you had to press it so many times in order to be heard.<p>

Finally she gave up on knocking and leaned over and jiggled the loose brick of the doorstop until she had displaced it enough to reveal the key kept hidden there. Germany had told her about it. The younger yet somehow more responsible German brother almost revered Canada as the only source of sanity in his older brother's life and was determined to keep her around somehow to temper Prussia's complete lack of common sense.

Canada unlocked the door, replaced the key, and slid the loose brick back into place before stepping inside. The house was large and nice, but obviously belonged to two men who were frequently single. Well, Prussia had many girlfriends, but none ever became important enough to leave their touch on the home he shared with Germany. That was why Canada had been very reluctant to date him, for fear that she would become just another of his dime-a-dozen arm candies.

But he was…_different_ since he'd fallen in love with her. Everyone said so. France especially was put out that Prussia's declining ability to party ever since he'd stopped ogling every girl he saw when they were out drinking. Prussia was more responsible now, as she heard from Germany, coming home when he should and not getting himself blind drunk as often as before, and he was actually doing his share of the work that the brothers' boss assigned them. It made Canada happy, whatever the reason was—it was nice to see that Prussia had become more of a respectable person, even if she wasn't the cause. If she was, that was just icing on the cake.

She shut the door and locked it again. Germany's car hadn't been in the driveway, so he must have been out working or visiting Italy or Japan. Probably Italy. She was rather needy. If Germany wasn't home, that also explained the loud music. The younger German would rarely stand for his older brother's taste, which was mostly comprised of electro music played at ungodly volume levels. Unfortunately, his new responsibility had not extended to his childlike behavior when it came to music and annoying others, especially his brother.

But today it seemed that he was listening to something even more detestable. And sadly, Canada recognized it, because her own twin was the originator.

Canada followed the music until she arrived at Prussia's door. Here the sound was almost unbearably loud, and as it was almost unbearably annoying from any distance, she cringed as she opened the door and stepped inside.

Prussia's room was a cluttered mess, as always. His bed was unmade, the quilt bearing his old flag tossed carelessly towards the end. Half of it was on the bed, half on the floor. The rest of the floor space was scattered with leaflets of music, dirty clothes, and an occasional beer can. His instruments were all arranged in front of a wall completely covered in a massive, sprawling sound system—a dark purple drum set, a sleek black bass guitar, and a keyboard with more sound settings than keys.

The man himself was in the middle of it, of course. "Birdie!" Prussia looked up from where he was bashing away on his drum set to the music. She hadn't even been able to hear him over the song blasting from the monstrous pile of speakers. It was a miracle he hadn't blown out his eardrums yet, or his vocal cords trying to scream over it. "How'd you get in here?"

Canada didn't even try to be heard over the noise. She motioned at the power button on the speaker system and pointed to her ears. The throbbing bass was beginning to give her a headache.

He sighed—the sound was lost in the song, but the long-suffering expression and dramatic shoulder-heave were unmistakable—and reached over to turn the music down. Not off, but at least it was now at a level where she could ignore it.

"Hi, Prussia," she said, delicately stepping over a pile of leather on the floor. A jacket, or pants maybe. He'd gone through a biker phase recently. It was probably safe to step on, but Canada had learned to be careful during his skateboarding phase. Stepping on one of those wrong had earned her several swollen lumps on her head. Prussia had phases often—it sometimes gave Germany and Canada whiplash to observe them all. Apparently, his new obsession was American pop music. _Wonderful_. "Since when have you been into LMFAO?"

"Since… I dunno, last week?" He clambered out from behind his drum set and bounded over to her, pushing her firmly against the wall and kissing her thoroughly.

Canada blushed and turned her face downward, freeing her lips. "Prussia…" she whimpered, hiding her mouth with the overlong sleeve of her jacket. He knew it still made her uncomfortable to be kissed like that.

"Sorry," he chuckled, but he didn't put any distance between them. His big bass-player's hands still rested on the wall on either side of her, pinning her in. "Couldn't help it. You look so awesome today."

Frowning, she glanced down at herself. She wasn't wearing anything special, just blue jeans and a dark green V-neck shirt. Oh, it must have been that she was wearing Prussia's black-and-white checkered jacket. "Oh." She started to take it off. "You left this at my house last time you were there…"

He pulled the arm of the jacket back up onto her shoulder, grinning crookedly at her. His crimson eyes glowed with affection as he looked at her wearing his clothes. "Keep it. It looks pretty awesome on you."

A blush heated her face again as he kissed her cheek softly. "Thank you," she mumbled.

With a laugh he buried his face in her shoulder. "You gotta stop being so cute if you ever want me to stop kissing you," he chuckled.

Canada turned bright red, more from her own emotions than his comment. When he said that, she'd felt a momentary flash of panic. "I… I don't want…you to stop _completely_," she stammered.

Mortification stained her cheeks crimson as he laughed, and she hid her face in his neck. "Don't laugh," she sniffled.

Still chortling, he enfolded her in his arms and held her close. "But that was just so awesomely funny!" Somehow she got even redder at that. "Your face is hot," he informed her, stroking her warm cheek with one long pale finger.

Unwillingly, she pushed him away. "I know," she snapped halfheartedly, too embarrassed to be really angry. Then she attempted a change of subject. "So, why LMFAO? Don't you usually dislike America's music?"

"Usually," he agreed. "But these guys have a song that is totally the song of my soul!" He reached over and cranked up the volume again. "_I'm sexy and I know it!_" he sang along with the band's obnoxious, overly-computerized voices. "_I'm sexy and I know it!_"

Canada brushed one hand, covered by the sleeve of Prussia's hoodie, over her eyes. "America…" she grumbled under her breath. There would be harsh words when she was back in North America. And _he_ griped at _her_ all the time about Justin Bieber when all _this_ crap came out of his radio stations?

"C'mon, isn't it awesomely perfect for me?" he cried. "_I got passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it, show it, show it,_" he sang, adding a suggestive wink at Canada. "_I'm sexy and I know it!_"

Turning pink again, Canada whirled around and began straightening up the room, tossing his bedcover back on his bed, gathering up trash, and kicking dirty clothes towards the hamper. No way was she touching his sweaty, dirty clothes. Who knew what he'd done in those clothes? She wouldn't put anything past her boyfriend anymore. "Will you turn that off?" she asked.

"Sorry for party rocking too hard for you," he said. He then proceeded to laugh uproariously at his own joke.

"Enough with the LMFAO references," she moaned. "Will you please help me clean up a little in here?"

With a groan, he punched the power button. The music died away into sweet, sweet silence.

"Have you ever even looked at LMFAO?" she asked after a minute. "They definitely are _not_ sexy."

"But I am," Prussia said. "So the awesome me will redeem the song by claiming it as my personal theme song of awesomeness!"

Canada smacked her forehead. "Please don't."

After a moment of pouting, he brightened again. "Hey! I could always go back to my old theme song!" He scurried back to his sound system and scrolled through his iPod for a new song. She had to smack herself in the forehead again when she recognized it.

"Heck yeah!" he crowed, dancing around the room. "_I'm bringing sexy back!_" Then he slowed, looking stupefied.

A giggle escaped Canada's lips. "You forgot the words?"

"No!" he snapped. "I just… Decided this guy could do the work for me! I'm so sexy that I don't even need to know the words to my own sexy theme song! This less awesome mortal can do it for me!"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course, sweetie." The pout reappeared on Prussia's face—he knew Canada only ever used pet names when she was being patronizing.

Before she knew what had happened, Prussia took three long strides towards her and knocked her backwards. She cried out, expecting to hit the floor, but when she landed she felt his bed at her back instead of the hardwood floor.

Prussia loomed over her, supporting himself with hands placed at either side of her head. Lips spread in a crooked grin under hot magma-red eyes. "What? You doubt my sex appeal, Birdie?" he asked in a soft voice.

"Ah!" Canada's own wide blue eyes flew wide in panic. "Prussia, what—"

"C'mon." He leaned down and whispered in her ear. The sensation made her shiver, although she tried to repress it. Even after all these months of dating, Canada was still hesitant to trust Prussia in these kinds of situations, which was why she was so shy about him giving her full-blown kisses of the type France had taught him. "Just say it. Just say, 'You're sexy and I know it,' and I'll let you up."

Still frightened, but now slightly enjoying being pinned down, she asked, "Promise?" The eagerness was frightening her more than the man holding her down right now.

"Prussian's honor." He leaned back with a satisfied smirk and waited.

She averted her eyes and blurted, "You'resexyandIknowit!" her cheeks flaming redder than a sunset.

"Very good." Leaning down, he pressed a chaste but lingering kiss to her lips. "Now you can go."

The second he stood up, Canada bolted to the other side of the room, chest heaving for air.

He laughed. "Sorry, did I scare you?" Then his expression grew more mischievous. "Or was it that you wanted me to…"

"Didn't you have something you wanted to do with me today?" Canada blurted.

"Oh yeah!" A sigh of relief pushed its way out of her lips as Prussia's expression cleared and brightened. "C'mon, let's go! This is gonna be so awesome!"

He grabbed her hand and dragged her down the stairs, snatching his car keys from the dish on the table by the doorway. "Wait here, I gotta get something from the kitchen."

When he came back, he had a plastic shopping bag in his hand. Canada couldn't make out what was inside, but he certainly looked excited about it.

"What's in the bag?"

"I'll tell you when we get there." He winked. "It'll be awesome, I promise!"

After a few minutes of driving, she recognized the route to the local mall. "The mall? Are you making an exchange or something?"

"Nope!" He chuckled gleefully. "You'll see!"

When they arrived, Prussia parked the car and went tearing off into the mall like an excited child. It was all Canada could do to keep up with him. Not helping the situation was the fact that he knew exactly where he was going, while Canada did not—and even keeping him in her line of sight in the crowded mall was a chore.

The frenzied pace did not slow until he reached the busiest store in the mall, where he plunked down on a bench in front of it and dug into his shopping bag.

Canada sat down beside him, gasping slightly from the exertion of keeping pace with her overeager boyfriend. His strides were so much longer than hers!

Her exhaustion couldn't hold her attention long. She was curious about what Prussia had in the bag.

What he resurfaced with from searching the bag baffled Canada. He held a full jar of mayonnaise. Now what in the world was he going to do with that? Make a sandwich?

His other hand came into view and Canada's jaw dropped. He had a spoon! He couldn't be…

Cheerfully, Prussia popped the top off the jar of mayonnaise and scooped a generous spoonful of the white goop into his mouth.

Disgusted, Canada turned away and covered her mouth with one hand to hold her breakfast in. He didn't even look bothered by the strange stares everyone was giving him—he continued gleefully eating away at the mayonnaise, humming cheerfully.

"Maple…" she whimpered. "Prussia, what are you doing?"

"Eating," he said with a wink. "Try some!"

"No w—" Not waiting for her response, Prussia shoved a spoonful of mayonnaise into her mouth.

Canada was completely prepared to sick up, but the taste of the mayonnaise drew her up short. It was…_sweet_. In fact, it tasted like…

"Vanilla pudding?" she asked incredulously.

"Shh," he admonished, holding a finger to his lips. "You'll blow my cover!"

Suddenly she was filled with the urge to laugh. To hide it, she leaned against his arm and buried her face in his shoulder.

"Birdie?" he asked, placing another spoonful of the "mayonnaise" in his mouth. A lady shopping with her two children gaped widemouthed at him, then ushered her kids away as though eating mayonnaise was a catching disease. That only made Canada laugh harder, her shoulders shaking as she hid behind him.

When Prussia realized she was laughing, he leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, "Nothing like pudding on a Sunday, eh, Birdie?"

Unexpectedly, Canada raised her face to his and kissed him. She could taste the pudding on his lips, and it made her laugh again. "I love you, Prussia," she said against his mouth.

"Canada…" He sounded touched. She'd never said that to him before. The hand that wasn't holding the mayonnaise jar pulled her tight against him, and he kissed her firmly, deepening the one she'd offered him. "I love you too."

They spent the rest of the afternoon that way, snuggling and sharing the "mayonnaise" and concealing their laughter at people's reactions to their strange choice of snack. For once, Canada wasn't self-conscious—it wasn't like she knew anyone here anyway!

"_Bruder?_" demanded an incredulous voice from behind them.

The pair stood and whirled to find Germany standing behind them with Italy on his arm. She was carrying laden shopping bags, and he was sporting a jaw dropped clean to the carpet. "What in the world are you doing?" he cried.

Canada began to laugh so hard that she had to sit back down and tears came to her eyes. Prussia held her as she shook helplessly, unable to control her laughter. His hands, usually rough, were always gentle when they held her, and his smile always came so easily for her. _You're good for him_, Germany had told her. Well, he was good for her too. He made her so happy.

That was the day that Canada decided that she would be with Prussia until the day she died. When she was with him, what they were doing didn't matter. Everything made Canada happy, as long as he was around. Even stupid pranks like eating vanilla pudding out of a mayonnaise jar could become the time of her life, as long as it was with him.

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><p>AN: Well, there you have it! It was strange, huh? But I felt the pudding thing was very Prussia. Many thanks to my little sister for that idea!<p>

Thank you guys for officially making this the longest fic I have ever written! I hope I'll be working on it for a long time to come ^^


	22. I'll Protect You

**AN: I'm not quite sure why I enjoyed this prompt so much. Maybe it's the Switzerland? I love him :D But either way I had a lot of fun with this prompt! I hope I did your OC justice, CelticGirl7! Everyone please review and tell me if you liked it as much as I did!**

**Prompt: Can you do a Rwanda (my OC) x Switzerland? (from CelticGirl7)**

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><p>Erisa Gahima, the personification of Rwanda, had very mixed feelings about world meetings.<p>

In a way, she loved them—she rarely got to see her twin brother Jules (better known as Burundi) and her foster mother Belgium outside of a world gathering. But unfortunately, that also meant she had to see faces she did not want to see.

Germany had been Rwanda's foster father before Belgium took her and Burundi away from him, and he was another thing for which she had mixed feelings. She had cared about him as well, and lost him. Now she had no idea how to act around him—and normally he was the loudest and most talkative of all the nations due to his peacekeeping efforts. That was why she normally kept her mouth shut at world meetings. If anyone wanted to say anything, they had to get Germany's permission, and it was just too hard to look into Germany's oh-so-familiar face and not lose what respect the other nations had for her by reverting into a politically oblivious child.

Besides, there was enough fighting back at Rwanda's home. She didn't want to deal with it here too. The scars of the Rwandan Genocide, a tribal purification that had spilled seas of Rwandan blood from border to border, were still so slow to heal. Now fighting of any kind sickened Rwanda.

No… Not sickened. She was past nausea. She'd stared into so many eyes that would never see again, held so many limp and lifeless bodies, seen too many emaciated and sickly children, watched too many bullets rip into her own citizens, the people she was sworn to protect. No, she was past sickness. After a time, a soldier lost the luxury of being shocked by death—a simple conflict was not even enough to faze her now.

But it was still sad. Fighting of any kind was regrettable—but often necessary. Sometimes Rwanda worried that she saw fighting as necessary more often than it truly was, and she was unnerved by the ease with which her hand tended to stray to the holster on her hip when she was angered.

But war did that to you. War put death in your eyes and suspicion in your bones, nations worst of all.

Immortality was wonderful, of course. But Rwanda would live to see her country washed in its own blood again, she was sure. Forever was a long time, and peace was a fragile thing, with only a few breaths of life in a world that seemed to fight its very existence.

Luckily, this meeting was just a few minutes from being over. As Rwanda's mind began to wander in pre-dismissal laziness, she found her gaze settling on the two youngest nations, physically speaking—Liechtenstein and Sealand. The pair of them was seated, as usual, on a bench set against the wall of the meeting room, chatting and laughing with each other. The two of them were inseparable at world meetings—whenever she wasn't attached to her big brother Switzerland's arm, that is.

As Rwanda's mind traveled to Switzerland, so did her eyes. He was arguing loudly with an unruffled Austria; his opponent's lack of reaction seemed to be inflaming him further.

Rwanda had to admire him. He was physically stronger than many nations, keeping himself in shape with hunting and brawling with anybody that dared cross him. He was a dead shot, and he managed to keep his citizens out of trouble more effectively than most nations could boast. She wished she could be more like him.

With a loud, aggravated sigh, Germany called for the meeting to end. However, many nations were so locked in their arguments that they hardly noticed. Half the world filed out, but the rest remained, arguing heatedly with one another.

Rwanda sighed and stood wearily, glancing around for a glimpse of Burundi. She saw him towards the back of the room, chatting with Belgium amicably. Burundi was much less war-torn than Rwanda, and he smiled more than she had been able to for a while.

She started to head towards them when she noticed something wicked coming her way. She made it a point to keep an eye on him at all times—you never knew who was going to need protecting from him next.

France was whistling cheerfully as he strolled towards the exit, easily ignoring England screaming at him from behind. He hesitated, however, right by the door.

Rwanda's eyes widened. Sealand was gone from the bench, having been picked up by Sweden and Finland already, but Liechtenstein was still there, waiting patiently for her brother to pick her up. Cute, innocent, and perfectly compliant, and her overly protective big brother wasn't around to intervene—right now, she was perfect prey for France.

A familiar gleam of mischief lit up France's blue eyes as he took a step towards Liechtenstein. "Oh, _bonjour, ma chere_. Are you 'ere all by yourself?"

Liechtenstein squeaked slightly and stared at France with nervous green eyes. "Mister France… Brother told me not to talk to you under any circumstances, _ever_…"

France chuckled. As he spoke, he leaned over the small girl ever so innocently. "Well isn't 'e being a little dramatic? Don't worry your pretty little 'ead, I—"

Rwanda shoved her handgun into his short ribs. "Move along, France," she said coolly, staring him down with her deep black eyes.

He laughed and put his hands behind his head, straightening up and away from Liechtenstein. "No need for jealousy, Rwanda. I do so love zose serious eyes of yours."

She cocked the gun. "I said, move along."

"Okay, okay, no need to wave zat around," he said with a chuckle. "Until next time, my lovely ladies!"

"France!" Switzerland was suddenly at Liechtenstein's side, looming over her protectively. He practically radiated murderous rage. "If you ever get near my sister again, I'll kill you 'till you're dead, you hear?"

"_Oui, oui_," France said offhandedly, not even bothering to look back.

Switzerland's eyes blazed with hot green fury, but he didn't pull out his gun to take a shot at France. Instead he turned to his little sister, crouching to look at her at eye level.

"Are you okay?" he asked tenderly, brushing her short hair behind her ear.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said in her sweet little voice, smiling at him. "Miss Rwanda protected me!"

"Did she?" Switzerland looked up at her. "Thank you for protecting my sister when I wasn't being careful enough."

"You're welcome," she replied. For some reason, she felt her cheeks heating under his intense green gaze. Luckily, her dark skin would hide the blush from Switzerland—but the question was, why was it there at all? She realized that this was the first time she had really spoken to him one-on-one like this aside from idle introductions.

"Rwanda!" She turned to see her brother Burundi calling to her, waving. "Let's go to the hotel together!"

"Okay, coming!" she called back. "Goodbye," she added to Switzerland and Liechtenstein.

"Goodbye! Thanks again!" Liechtenstein said, waving and cocking her head as she smiled sweetly.

"Have a safe trip home," Switzerland said, his eyes already captured by Liechtenstein as he looked her over to make sure he wasn't hurt in any way. A slight flush painted his cheeks—embarrassment for failing to protect his sister from France, likely.

Rwanda followed Burundi away, feeling just the slightest twinge of disappointment that her conversation with the Germanic siblings couldn't have gone on longer.

o~O~o

"Big Brother?"

Switzerland was startled out of his reverie by his sister's voice calling to him. "Oh, yes?"

"It's okay, you know. I'm all okay thanks to Miss Rwanda."

He nodded, coloring slightly with embarrassment. That hadn't actually been what he was thinking about. Of course, he was distraught that he had allowed his arguing with Austria to distract him from his duty as a brother, but his unnatural quiet and lack of focus had come from a different source.

He had never had a real conversation with Rwanda before, but he had noticed her. She was a lot more admirable than many nations, who fought and argued so pettily about every little thing. She stayed silent and watched, but she was made of steel. She knew how to fight, and she had survived a forging in fire and blood. The Rwandan Genocide had appalled the world—but she had come out of it tougher for her hardships. She was proof of the statement "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

And she was not bad to look at either, he had to admit. She never dressed like she wanted to be looked at—she wore an army fatigue jacket and a black shirt with jeans, pretty standard attire, with her shoulder-length plush black hair pushed back by a headband in imitation of her foster mother Belgium.

But she might have been even more attractive to Switzerland for that. She _wasn't_ trying. Her lack of interest in a man to protect her highlighted the admirable independence of her personality. Besides, her rich, glowing ebony skin and thick black hair and depthless midnight eyes were all so…_alluring_ to Switzerland for some reason. It was rare that he found a woman as interesting as he found her.

"Hey Big Brother?" Liechtenstein set her sewing in her lap to look at him.

"Mm?" Her thoughtful expression made Switzerland stop running a cloth across his favorite pistol to clean it. "What's the matter?"

"Do you like Miss Rwanda?"

He felt his cheeks heat. The knowledge that he was blushing made him flush even redder. "Oh, I… Well, I certainly admire her for being so strong and surviving her hardships like she did…"

"But I mean, do you _like_ her? She's very pretty, and nice too." Liechtenstein looked at him expectantly.

"Why would you think that?" he asked, dodging the question.

"Well, you blushed when she was talking to us," she said innocently, looking confused by his lack of understanding.

Switzerland desperately wished that the ground would open up and swallow him. He'd never really thought about being in a relationship with any of the other countries—goodness knows how long the awkwardness would last if it didn't work out.

But Rwanda… Those big beautiful black eyes of hers that could swallow a man whole… They were making him begin to wonder if—

He squashed that thought before it could get any more prominent and stood up. "I'm going to bed. You should too—it's getting late."

"Yes, Brother," she said, obediently rising and giving him a hug. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." When Liechtenstein left the room, Switzerland involuntarily sank back into his chair. He put his elbows on his knees and dropped his forehead into his hand wearily. "What am I thinking…?"

All he could think about as he sat there alone in the falling darkness was how far away the next world meeting—and his next encounter with a certain lovely African nation—was.

o~O~o

Rwanda didn't know if she was imagining things, but she thought that there were two blond Europeans paying more attention to her than usual at the next world meeting.

It seemed that France had seriously considered his compliment on her eyes and decided she was worth pursuing, because he would stare at her shamelessly and wink conspiratorially at her whenever she caught him. "Moron," she grumbled to herself. As if! If he tried to lay a hand on her, he would get his brains blown out faster than he could say, "_Ma chere_."

So Rwanda returned each of his flirtatious glances with a flinty glare. Luckily, he took the hint and left her alone when the meeting was over.

The other person she found her eyes meeting with more often than usual was Switzerland's. Every time he caught her watching, he would avert his gaze quickly or offer her a small, nervous smile.

Catching Switzerland looking at her wasn't half as irritating as catching France. In fact, it was slightly…well, flattering. She was beginning to get the idea that he didn't look at many other nations with that much attentiveness. The only thing she could compare it to was his devotion to Liechtenstein—but when he looked at Rwanda, there was definitely something different in his eyes.

They didn't get a chance to talk after that meeting, but at the next one, Rwanda was pleased to see he went out of his way to speak to her.

Liechtenstein hanging on his arm, he made his way over to her. "Oh, hello, Rwanda," he said, coughing slightly. Were his cheeks red? Or was that her imagination?

"Hello, Switzerland. Liechtenstein." Rwanda felt the sudden urge to pull her army jacket closer. It made her look bigger than she was, she knew—but that had never really seemed an issue before. Why was it now?

"How are things?" he asked.

"As well as can be expected," she sighed. Africa wasn't exactly known for high GDPs or standards of living. Sometimes she wished developed countries like him wouldn't try to pry into her business, though she knew he was just being polite.

"Ah…" His flush deepened, as though he knew he had made an error. "That was more painless than usual," he said after a moment.

"Yes, it was. We actually got something done," she responded in a tone of wonder.

"Not much, but I suppose baby steps are important too," he said.

"Hey, Rwanda!" called Burundi. "Let's go!"

It was rare that Rwanda was seriously angry with her twin, but now was one of those times. "Oh… I have to go, sorry."

"Hey Rwanda!" Liechtenstein grabbed Rwanda's hand in her small, soft ones. "Can we sit with you next time, please? I'd appreciate it ever so much," she said, her voice and her smile both equally bright.

"Oh, um. Sure." For some reason, she found her eyes drawn to Switzerland to see his reaction.

A slight quirk of his lips brought a flood of surprise. Switzerland never smiled!

"Thank you!" Liechtenstein cried. "Well, bye now!"

"See you," Rwanda said shakily, running off to meet her brother and trying to control the pounding of her heart at that hint of a smile.

o~O~o

At the next meeting, Rwanda sat with Switzerland and Liechtenstein, as promised. The time after that, she joined them again. And again. And again.

It became routine. She would begin the meeting sitting beside Liechtenstein, but the younger nation would inevitably leave the table to go play with Sealand instead of enduring the meetings. Then only an empty chair would separate her and Switzerland, and they would chat with each other during the particularly bad bouts of arguing.

They'd talk about guns and hunting and fighting, and matters of politics and national goings-on. They'd gossip about the other nations and make jokes at their fellow countries' expense. Rwanda found herself admiring him more and more—his quiet wit, his stubborn refusal to back down from a challenge, his determination to protect that mirrored her own. Even his appearance was starting to become appealing to her, though she normally found Europeans terribly lacking in the looks department.

Eventually, though, Liechtenstein migrated to the other side of Switzerland, and Rwanda found herself sitting right by his side. It was an electrifying experience every time he leaned over to speak to her, every time their knees brushed under the table due to Rwanda's very unladylike habit of setting her feet far apart when she sat down.

Her stuttering heart was beginning to worry Rwanda. Was she seriously in danger of falling in love with Switzerland? Could it really be true?

Well, if she was going to love anyone, he was an ideal choice, she supposed. At least he wasn't France. That one hadn't given up his advances on her, though Switzerland's near-constant presence at Rwanda's side had discouraged any rape attempts thus far.

Her peace lasted until the one day Switzerland had to leave her side because his sister had gone out to play in the gardens with Sealand and couldn't be found.

Rwanda was helping him search. The anxiety in Switzerland's eyes had made her wave off Burundi and Belgium and tell them to go to the hotel ahead of her.

Switzerland and Rwanda split up to search. The grounds were huge at this particular meeting place, but luckily they had also gotten Finland and Sweden to help look, as Sealand was also lost.

All four of the searchers were worried sick about the two tiny nations. Sweden did the best job of hiding his fear, but even Rwanda could tell that, behind his stolid mask, he was also very worried.

"Liechtenstein! Sealand!" she called as she wandered through the shrubbery. "Where are you? Liechtenstein!"

"I don't know about zose kids, but you're razer easy to find," chuckled a familiar voice from behind her.

Rwanda groaned, glancing over her shoulder at her unwanted visitor. "Not you again."

"But of course! I am not one to be put off so easily," France said slyly. He stepped towards her. "'ow lovely you look today, _ma chere_. You are a goddess."

Rwanda internally cursed herself for electing to wear something more effeminate today. It had mainly been for Switzerland's benefit, but apparently other eyes were feasting on her tighter-fitting jeans and green plaid flannel shirt, the first few buttons undone to reveal a slight hint of what her normally loose and unflattering attire hid.

"Leave me alone," she growled, glad that she hadn't elected to leave her holster out of her ensemble. "I really would have no problem shooting you."

Before Rwanda could reach for her gun, he reached out more quickly than she would have thought he was capable of and firmly grasped her wrists.

Rwanda glared at him. "Don't you dare."

He rolled his eyes. "Zey always say zat, and it never makes me stop. Why even bozzer?"

With more strength than she thought he possessed, he pushed her back against the brick wall enclosing a verandah behind them. "A little privacy, _non_?"

_I won't scream for help. I won't!_ That would be the ultimate blow to her pride. Losing to a creepy pervert like this before she even got the chance to draw her gun?

Rwanda twisted and fought to free her hands at the same time as she swung her feet at him. But again, she'd underestimated his strength. Effortlessly he pinned both her hands above her head and pressed himself to her, making her kicks useless.

"Such beauty," he sighed. "I can see why Switzerland likes you so much."

Her eyes widened, and for a second she stopped fighting. "What?"

He chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her.

She bit him. France reared back, but to her surprise he was still laughing. "Feisty, I see."

"Pervert," she growled and renewed her struggles to escape.

_I won't scream. I won't do it._ But her attacks were having no effect—it was rare that one of them even landed. France was an expert at manipulating the way he trapped her so that she was helpless to get him off of her.

Rwanda was beginning to despair. Her pride kept her mouth glued shut even then, however. She couldn't call for help. That was weakness, and Rwanda was _not_ weak.

She closed her eyes. All this time, she had been searching for strength. She had fought, fought long and hard and well, so that she would never have to endure fear or pain ever again. So her people wouldn't have to live in terror ever again.

But now, when it came down to it, she was helpless. France was tossing her about like a doll. All her strength, and her skill, and her determination—none of it could grant her security in this.

It was over.

France's free hand closed on the buttons on the front of her shirt.

Suddenly the familiar click of a gun being cocked caused Rwanda's eyes to snap open. France looked shocked at the sensation of a gun pressing into his back.

"Step. Away."

"Okay, okay, no need to make zat scary face," France said, grinning over his shoulder at the man threatening him.

Switzerland trembled with rage. His green eyes blazed with emerald fire. "Don't joke around with me. I said, _step away_."

"Fine." France obliged, winking at Rwanda. "Until next time, _ma chere_."

Switzerland dropped his gun and rammed his fist into France's jaw, sending the blue-eyed nation flying. "I've been waiting centuries to do that," Switzerland sighed almost rapturously. Then his voice grew hard and angry once more. "If you ever touch her or my sister ever again, I swear I'll put more holes in you than Swiss cheese."

"Understood," France said, saluting Switzerland mockingly. The Swiss' aura grew murderous, and France took that as his cue to retreat.

Switzerland turned to Rwanda with a stricken look in his eyes. She was still standing with her back to the brick wall. He stepped closer, but seemed reluctant to get too close. His green eyes were full of worry. "I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner, but I had no idea what was happening! Why didn't you call for me?"

The hurt in his voice as he said the last sentence was surprising. Why would it hurt him that she didn't want protection?

"I thought I could take him," she responded. Thank heavens her voice didn't shake.

He sighed and looked at her helplessly. "I understand. But please…be careful, okay?"

Rwanda's eyes widened. The wistfulness in his voice… Of course!

Switzerland was a stoic person. He rarely smiled and was almost always serious. It wasn't easy for such an emotionally reserved person to show affection.

Switzerland's way of making up for his emotional distance was to zealously protect those he cared about. Liechtenstein was proof enough—the ferocity of his love for her fueled his overprotectiveness and jealousy at anyone making a move at her.

For some reason, Rwanda felt a tear gathering on her eyelashes. Maybe it was the trauma of what France had almost done to her catching up, but she felt oddly emotional and sentimental.

Switzerland saw it, too. "Rwanda…?"

Without a word, Rwanda went to him and put her arms around him, burying her face in his chest as a few tears escaped her eyes.

"Ah!" Switzerland exclaimed, startled. For a few heartbeats he was stiff and unresponsive, but slowly he put his arms around her and returned her embrace.

"Thank you," she said softly, squeezing his hard body slightly. She felt so safe here in his arms, so secure. This was the feeling she'd been searching for, trying to provide it to her people—this feeling of safety, of belonging, of _home_.

Maybe it wasn't in strength or fighting skill that she could find true security. Maybe her true refuge was in knowing that there was someone out there who cared enough about her to rescue her when she was in danger, no matter what.

She felt his hand slowly come to rest on her hair, stroking it slightly. He coughed awkwardly. "I couldn't very well just stand there and let him do it, could I?"

"Still." This embrace was beginning to grow too long to be platonic. Would he let go? "I was so glad."

He didn't let go. Instead, his arms tightened around her, as if afraid _she_ would try to escape. "I was glad to get the chance to punch him."

She laughed and clung to him gratefully, just as hard as he held onto her. There was power in his arms. The power to make her safe. The power to give her the security she longed for. The power to make her happy forever and ever. And she loved him for it, really and truly loved him.

"Switzerland?"

"Mm?"

"I… I think I love you."

He paused, surprised. "Oh, really? That's good. Because I…" She could almost hear the blush in his voice. "You too."

She smiled into his chest. "Good."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Aww, so much awkward love :D How cute!<strong>


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